The Quiet Storm

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In the mid-1970s, the national media was reporting on the rise of a new socioeconomic group that was quickly gaining unprecedented access to jobs, education, backyard swimming pools, the good life.

Journalists seemed fixated on what many were calling the, quote, new black middle class.

Black families have entered the mainstream of American life in larger numbers than ever before in our history.

No one of them is exceptional, but their total story is.

The media's obsession at the time was with how, for this one section of black America, the protests and violence of the 1960s seemed to be cross-fading into quiet middle-class achievement.

Nowhere near as exciting as a riot or a burning as the move into middle-income America, but this is what black Americans are achieving more than ever before.

In August 1973, Ebony magazine had its own special issue all about the black middle class.

On the cover, there was a fisheye photo of an anonymous black man wearing a crisp suit with a tight afro and a briefcase walking through the city with purpose.

The stars of the moment were regular ascendant black Americans.

We were dealing with people that were having economic stability for the first time in generations.

This is writer and cultural critic Craig Seymour.

Although there'd always been some version of the black middle class, Craig says this group of black Americans was different.

The black middle class of the 70s was really reaching the world with arms wide open and trying to have new opportunities and new experiences that have just not been afforded to masses of black people before that.

And as these new masses were figuring out what upward mobility felt like, they were also exploring what black middle classness sounded like.

It was the aspiration to expand, to seek out new type of sounds, kind of to have new sonic adventures.

That's the type of thing that was so different.

In the previous decade, some of the biggest songs in Black popular music had been dancey, sometimes political, and heavy on the funk.

Like James Brown's Black Power anthem, Say It Loud, I'm Black and I'm Proud, this song was a good time with a strong message.

But by the mid-1970s, that new generation of Black Americans was gravitating to a much more mellow sound, a sound that matched the soft life of their middle-class dreams.

They wanted music that was smooth and easy and all about love and romance.

And at a small black college radio station in Washington, D.C., a show called The Quiet Storm would give them exactly what they were looking for.

Welcome to The Quiet Storm.

Four hours of my favorite songs presented for your enjoyment.

Relax and enjoy The Quiet Storm.

The concept of the Quiet Storm radio show was pretty straightforward, an evening program featuring hours of mostly uninterrupted, soulful ballads and love songs.

That simple simple format made The Quiet Storm an overnight sensation.

And as the show became a fixture in homes and on car stereos throughout Black DC, it also set off a debate over how black music should sound and what it should say.

In the early 1970s, before the Quiet Storm radio show was created, Washington, D.C.

was an epicenter of black middle-class life.

The city was experiencing new levels of black access to good jobs and higher education.

DC was nicknamed the Chocolate City, a town full of Black socialites, politicians, and professionals.

You had affluent, middle-class Black folks that liked to go out and party, that had homes.

Deanna Williams worked as a DJ in Washington.

It was a thriving

community of all kinds of social economic, but black, very, very blackety black, black, and we were thriving.

And then the mecca of all the HBCUs, Howard University.

Oh my goodness.

Howard got a new radio station in 1971 and renamed it with its own call letters, WHUR, which stood for Howard University Radio.

This was the first black-owned radio station in DC, a city where three out of four residents were black.

Even though WHUR was technically a commercial outlet, it had a strong grassroots feel.

There was a news department, blocks of cultural programming, and lots of music.

And not just the up-tempo RB or funky dance music you might hear on other stations, but also roots reggae, Chicago blues, and freedom songs.

Deanna Williams was one of WHUR's first DJs.

She had a show called Ebony Moonbeams.

I would come on, you know.

This is Deanna Williams, Ebony Moonbeams, I'm 96.3 WHUR.

And tonight, I've got some special things for you.

Like the other DJs, Deanna had eclectic tastes and the freedom to play mostly whatever she wanted.

It was freestyle.

You heard it all.

You heard jazz.

You heard gospel.

You heard the beauty of us.

360 degrees of the black experience is what we did.

But this kind of programming was not bringing in a lot of money.

So just a few years after WHUR first went on the air, Howard's president, James Cheek, started pushing the station to focus more on raising revenue.

Management had a new mandate, which, as one historian put it, was to pursue an upscale commercial niche in the FM market.

Basically, they wanted a more bougie audience.

Dr.

Cheek offered me the opportunity to first become the sales manager of Howard University Radio, WHUR.

As part of that new mission, WHUR hired a woman named Kathy Hughes.

Here's Kathy in an interview with KUT Radio in 2020.

I was blessed my first year, increased the ratings and the revenue substantially.

In 1975, when Kathy was just 28 years old, she became the first woman to run a broadcast facility in the nation's capital.

And she would soon reshape the station in ways that would ripple through black music and radio for the next decade.

She did it by focusing on a new target audience, DC's young, thriving black middle class.

Kathy Hughes was incredibly savvy about understanding how radio audiences worked, how to sell airtime, but also how to program certain types of music to specific audiences.

Music critic Eric Harvey has written about WHUR's history.

And he says, as Kathy was thinking about how to make music shows to attract new listeners to the station, she decided to survey the people closest to her.

You know, she was looking at her girlfriends.

Who was she hanging out with?

Upwardly mobile single black women who were being completely underserved by popular radio.

From her focus group, Kathy realized that a local show that appealed to single black women, especially professional black women, could be really popular and a great source of ad revenue.

Kathy began to loosely conceive of a weekend evening show focused on romantic music, slow, soulful RB ballads, and very smooth love songs.

She knew that there were a lot of single young black women in the DC area.

This is writer and cultural critic Craig Seymour again.

So she thought, well, hey, who doesn't want to be serenaded?

You know, who doesn't want to have some body play love songs to them and talk in a deep voice and listen to that?

So she kind of tailored the show to that particular audience.

One version of the show's origin story, and there are a few, is that Kathy had a bit of a tough time finding the right DJ to host the show.

She eventually settled on an intern named Melvin Lindsay, who also babysat her son.

Although Melvin was not Kathy's first or favorite choice for the DJ gig, he was the one who would soon take her idea and make it a huge success.

Melvin was a handsome, buttoned-down kid from DC, known for carrying a briefcase around campus.

He could also be super shy.

Deanna Williams was one of Melvin's mentors at WHUR.

Melvin was still a student when I was on the radio.

He was very quiet until he got comfortable.

And that quietness is what set Melvin apart immediately, the night he hosted his first show in May 1976.

That's because Melvin represented a new kind of on-air personality.

The previous generation of black radio DJs were super performative, flamboyant, and kind of rambunctious.

Rocket chip time one more time and look out, y'all, cause here we go!

How about that now?

Let's continue on with more recorded music.

KCOH!

Yesterday.

Melvin mellowed that profile way out.

When he spoke, ugh.

Pure satin.

Melvin was so gentle and fluid, and it all seemed just effortless.

The next couple of songs I'm going to play have a lot of meaning for me, and I want you to listen to the words.

They're dedicated from me to you, and then I'll be back to say something else before I go.

But listen to these, they're just for you.

Warm, inviting, engaging.

That was his style.

His style of radio.

It made you feel like he was talking directly to you.

That's a big achievement to be able to do that as a radio personality.

He had the voice, he had the composure, he was humble.

It was like a chef.

Like he prepared this great soul-satisfying meal.

WHUR had never done a show that sounded like this.

Up to that point, the station was mostly a mix of public affairs programming and a lot of jazz.

Definitely not B-side baby-making music.

Listeners were caught totally off guard.

On the night of the first broadcast, Melvin was flooded with calls from people requesting their own favorite slow jams.

Others phoned in just to show the young DJ some love.

For the next two days, WHUR Switchboard lit up with listeners calling in from all over the DC area, asking about that new show.

Together, Kathy Hughes and Melvin Lindsay, the intern student babysitter, had just created a hit.

Here's Melvin in 1991 talking about how the show just took off.

It started out of love, out of fun,

out of people putting their heads together

and not even realizing that we were really creating such a monster, you know, in the radio industry.

But the program still needed a name.

About a year before the show first went on the air, Smokey Robinson had released a comeback album full of love songs titled A Quiet Storm, which featured the extremely sensual, suggestive hit single of the same name.

Kathy told Melvin they should name their show The Quiet Storm.

She said the phrase had quote subliminal seduction in it, which was exactly the feel she wanted for her program.

Naturally, Melvin used Smokey's track as the show's theme song.

Good evening, I'm Melvin Lindsay and welcome to The Quiet Storm.

Again, I want to thank everyone from WHUR's news department, the entire staff here.

They've been so good to me.

The Quiet Storm show started in 1976 and by the end of the next year, it was the number one weekend music show in Washington.

The show was so successful, Kathy expanded it to weeknights, which made WHUR the second highest rated FM station in DC, and it brought in millions in ad sales for the station.

The Quiet Storm's sudden and wild popularity came in part thanks to Melvin's innovation as a curator.

Instead of going for the up-tempo jams, he chose softer tracks, the smooth soul, the romantic ballads, and much of it was new music by black artists like Gene Karnes, You Are All I Need, and LTD's sumptuous, perfectly titled track, Love Ballad.

As a grassroots-oriented station, WHUR had its own history of freeform programming where DJs just kind of let the music sprawl.

Melvin and Kathy's innovation was the way they took that free form approach and applied it to a new kind of music, slow jam deep cuts.

Throughout the day's programming, starting with morning drive until afternoon drive, you got music that was keeping you up, going, more up-tempo music, but then that stopped when it got dark and you were not working and you were not driving and you had finished dinner and homework with the kids and you were lighting your candle and maybe more

and chilling.

And so what you were hearing were mid-tempo and ballads that were about love.

Music critic Craig Seymour remembers how as a kid, he and his mother would sit in the car outside their home, listening to the quiet storm, completely immersed.

And we would wait until the commercial break and then go inside the house and turn on the radio while the commercial break was on because you just really wouldn't want to miss these songs because you really had no other chance to hear many of them.

These weren't hits now.

They were really rare cuts,

deep cuts, and unique to him and his taste.

Melvin really seized on a major shift that was happening in black music in the late 1960s and early 70s.

In that moment of arms wide open exploration, black groups were experimenting with a whole new kind of sound.

It starts with the artists making these, I don't want to say slicker in a bad way, but just kind of these more sophisticated, musically sophisticated type of popular music.

Sophisticated.

That's how several critics have described this evolution.

As popular soul and R ⁇ B started to expand from the shorter, more jerky dance funk tunes of the previous era, artists were smoothing the edges, making songs longer, and bedazzling their tracks with big, rich string sections.

This modern, elegant, soft, romantic edge to popular soul music that artists were expanding upon in the early 1970s.

And you can look at what Isaac Hayes was beginning to do.

Lush orchestrations for big concept albums with very romantic themes.

You have Isaac Hayes doing, you know, these long instrumental tracks.

Gary White, all these things are starting to happen, along with black music soundtracks.

This is music and culture critic Nelson George.

He says one thing that was driving this expansiveness was the influence of soundtracks for black themed films like Shaft, Troubleman, and Sparkle.

This was beautiful, innovative music that adapted funk and soul to the openness, continuity, and minor key moodiness of film scoring.

For example, songs like Curtis Mayfield's Give Me Your Love from the Superfly soundtrack.

Black film soundtracks were having a major influence on R ⁇ B.

And as more and more artists began replicating the lush, palatial sound of film scores what emerged was a kind of smooth soul that would help define quiet storm so the music is changing the ambition the song the tracks are getting longer and so so you know hur is one of the stations that responding to that in terms of what their playlist is and the sound of the station

The quiet storm may have been aimed at the black middle class at first, but it quickly transcended.

If you walk through any of DC's Black neighborhoods in the evening, you could hear the radio show coming out of row house windows and the cars that drove by just as the sun was setting.

When the quiet storm time came, it's like the tempo just slowed down.

And it was just, it's just so hard to explain to the, now that radio culture isn't as big, but just how a show could really just change the vibe of a whole city, or at least the black part of the city at a particular time.

It's almost like a dimmer switch, you know, where it's like all of a sudden these ballads started coming in and just the whole vibe of Black Washington began to change along with the moods of Melvin and Lindsey.

And at the time, Black DC was looking to turn down the dimmer switch, not just on the mood, but on life.

The quiet storm became so deeply special to Black Washington because this was a moment when folks really needed some quiet.

The movements of the 1950s and 60s had led to historic gains in education, employment, housing, and the expansion of black political and racial self-awareness, all of that.

But look at the tremendous costs.

The civil rights era had been so violent, so tumultuous, especially in places like D.C.

The biggest uprising after Martin Luther King's assassination took place in the heart of Black Washington.

What that did to the psyche of Black Black people starts to push us into a post-civil rights era of the 1970s.

Fredera Hadley is an ethnomusicologist at Juilliard.

And so people start really turning to the future and trying to just imagine what is this we are now entering or creating.

This moment of swift change brought up all sorts of existential questions for black folks.

As we integrate into a white world, how do we remain black?

What do we do differently?

What's What's still ours?

And given how hard white people fought this, are we safe in this new America?

Desegregation had been exhausting.

Integration and assimilation were exhausting.

Some black folks just needed a moment to catch their collective breath.

And Fredera says the quiet storm provided a soundtrack for that transition.

a transition to some semblance of normalcy by way of romance.

I think it really takes hold because it is the music of that kind of intimate, deeply personal life.

It's not about we shall overcome.

It's about you and me or me and mine.

It's about feelings like, how do I feel about you?

How do I feel about us?

How do I want you to feel about me, right?

In some small but really important ways, Melvin's show help people to shut out the loudness and intensity and confusion of the world just for a few hours and focus on themselves and their own hearts.

This was a time to unplug, to pour a glass of wine, to make dinner for yourself and maybe the ones you love.

Melvin was skilled and he learned what song is going to get people at this time.

This is former WHUR DJ Deanna Williams again.

He knew when people were getting home.

He knew when people were probably finished dinner.

He knew when people were probably getting in bed.

So you getting in bed?

It's time to get some, you know, get in bed, get down with it, music.

You know your mama was listening.

You know your daddy was listening to The Quiet Storm.

Like I said, that baby making music.

So get in bed, get busy in bed, get busy in the kitchen, whatever.

Look, it's easy to snicker about The Quiet Storm, a show full of sappy love songs and sugary ballads about sex.

But for Craig Seymour, it was bigger than that.

He first discovered The Quiet Storm at a pretty young age, and the show helped him wrestle with some big questions about true romance.

It was so much of an education for me because those ballads that Melvin Lindsay played gave me a certain deeper feeling of like wondering what life circumstances would have to happen where you would feel like this, like the way that a singer would sing a particular song.

I kind of grappled with the mysteries of adulthood through listening to The Quiet Storm.

Specifically, Craig says The Quiet Storm helped him sort through his feelings of love and desire as a gay kid.

Craig didn't realize at the time that Melvin Lindsay was also gay.

But today, Craig definitely thinks Melvin's musical selections often had double meanings, that he would play certain songs to send messages and tell stories that only his gay listeners could decode.

You're kind of faced with these romantic songs about love gain, love loss.

When I would try to put myself into those situations,

there's a way that I had to confront queerness because, you know, I knew that I wasn't going to be singing, you bring me joy, you know, to a woman.

But for me, that wasn't scary.

It was kind of fascinating and kind of safe to explore the idea of romance in this safe space of the quiet storm.

Craig and I both grew up in the Washington area in the 1970s and 80s.

When I was a little kid, my mom would drive me from Silver Spring, Maryland into northeast D.C.

to drop me at my grandma's house near Fort Stevens.

As we rode down Georgia Avenue into the evening, past the Safeway and the barbershop in Shepherd Park where I hated going to get my hair cut, I'd stare out the car window.

It had been two decades since the King riots, but I could see a lot of the buildings were still boarded up.

From the back seat of my mom's Green Ford Granada, I could hear the quiet storm crackling into clarity on the car radio.

The music of Marvin Gaye, along with Tammy Terrell, the year 1967, 724 in Washington, once again, good evening.

I'm Melvin Lindsay.

My mom was a single black woman from D.C.

who worked for the city government.

Not quite middle class, but my mother loved love, and she sang every song.

It must have felt like Melvin was DJing just for her.

The music of Patty LaBelle on WHUR, the title title tune to her latest album, I'm in Love Again.

And before that, it's Patty LaBelle with Since I Don't Have You.

Two minutes before 8 p.m., you're listening to The Quiet Storm.

By the early 1980s, WHUR's The Quiet Storm had grown into something way bigger than the radio program that Kathy Hughes and Melvin Lindsay started in 1976.

That one local show was now having a big influence on broadcasting across the U.S.

Within 10 years almost every major market black radio station in the country has a quiet storm.

Three to five hours overnight, usually, maybe starting at 11 or midnight.

These became a staple.

Nelson George wrote a front page story in 1986 for Billboard magazine with the headline, Quiet Storm Sweeps Black Radio.

He describes how the DC show had inspired 120 broadcasters around the country to develop their own shows and sometimes even entire stations, just like the WHUR program.

Those new shows were not affiliated with the original Quiet Storm, but a lot of these copycat programs nodded to it with names like Sunday Night Cool Out and Soft Touch.

And their approach and sound was pretty standard Quiet Storm.

And the DJs were clearly imitating Melvin's signature smooth style.

There's a lot more mellow voices.

They tended to be either very low-tone women or low-baritone men.

It's really a profound aesthetic change.

You know, it's going from hard, you know, some whiskey to cognac.

So like in New York, it was Vaughn Harper.

Vaughn Harper had a very deep voice.

Welcome to the Quiet Storm.

You know, blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.

It's 107.5 WBLS four times that I just can't walk away.

Not from you because you are the spice of women.

As Quiet Storm programming took off on black radio in the mid-1980s, the Quiet Storm sound solidified into a brand new genre of music.

Record companies saw this as a chance to sell a lot of music to the so-called sophisticated Quiet Storm audience with disposable income.

And they put pressure on musicians as they went into the studio to record their next albums.

Here's music critic Eric Harvey again.

Record labels started asking their artists, hey, you know, can we get a song on side B for

Quiet Storm format?

And then we'll, you know, service the other radio stations with the more up-tempo kind of pop songs.

And here's probably the most impressive sign of just how powerful and influential Quiet Storm had become.

Quiet Storm Radio was launching full superstars.

Several legendary artists owe a lot of their stardom to Quiet Storm.

Not just because of a few songs.

These are balladeers who fully embodied that smooth, mellow, romantic sound.

Artists like Luther Van Dross.

Craig Seymour wrote a biography of Luther Van Dross and says knockout Quiet Storm ballads like A House is Not a Home are what really helped solidify Luther's massive audience.

And a house is not a home.

Kathy Hughes initially, you know, created Quiet Storm in order for young black single women to have somebody to sing to them.

And Luther basically made a career singing to, you know, single black women.

But no one saw more commercial success thanks to Quiet Storm Radio than Anita Baker.

Her 1986 album, Rapture, was a Quiet Storm staple with songs like Same Old Love and You Bring Me Joy.

You bring me

joy.

At the time, it was rare for a black musician doing adult R ⁇ B to have what was called a crossover album, one that went beyond Quiet Storm and other formats that were considered black radio to find success with mainstream, that is, white listeners.

But that's exactly what happened with Rapture.

The album was launched by Quiet Storm Radio and then crossed over to pop radio, expanding Anita Baker's audience exponentially.

I mean, this song Sweet Love, you know, it reached the Billboard top 10.

It crossed over to pop audiences and it started in the Quiet Storm rotation.

To this day, Anita Baker can still sell out, you know, 5,000-seat theaters.

And it's hard to imagine Anita Baker's stardom being half of what it is today without being nurtured in the Quiet Storm format.

Coming up, not everyone was into these smooth baby-making vibes.

The Quiet Storm backlash after the break.

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By the 1980s, Quiet Storm's smooth pop-soul love song sound was blowing up on radio stations and in record stores all over the country.

But not everyone was feeling the love.

There were lots of aesthetic criticisms about Quiet Storm music, which, you know, in some cases was deserved.

First of all, music critic Eric Harvey says, some music fans complained that Quiet Storm music wasn't really music at all.

More like mushy, tuneless versions of Black America's great funk, jazz, and soul traditions.

This is music that could easily be called by some critics, you know, sonic wallpaper, easy listening.

And in a way, the detractors were right.

Part of the point of Quiet Storm was that it was music that wasn't necessarily so rich.

You could just vibe.

So one of the features that was making Quiet Storm so popular in the mid-80s was the very thing it was getting dragged for at the exact same time.

This is music that is designed in a certain way to blend in with other activities, making dinner, having a glass of wine, making out, etc., etc.

And, you know, for some people, it's like what you listen to over the PA system at the mall.

Even harsher, if you can imagine, was the critique that Quiet Storm was so decidedly apolitical.

And to some, that was unusual for a form of black music as big and influential as Quiet Storm.

With more than a hint of shade, one critic even described Anita Baker as music for assimilated black Americans.

A lot of the Quiet Storm detractors viewed Quiet Storm as a way of saying that African Americans have succeeded in making it to the middle class.

Like we're just going to listen to this kind of soft, complacent sounding music as a symbol of all we've achieved.

But, you know, people who were still thinking we have a long way to go in terms of full equality and Quiet Storm feels sort of like a retreat from that.

This was the 1980s, a moment when Black America, and Black DC in particular, was in the midst of multiple crises, especially with Reaganomics, crack cocaine, and the war on drugs.

The way some listeners saw it, black music had a responsibility to capture the urgency of the moment.

But Quiet Storm seemed to be abdicating black music's historic role as the teller of truths about the hard realities of black life in America.

The last thing black folks needed was gushy love songs and apolitical music.

It felt complacent, especially as Reagan took over and especially as the opportunities for African Americans in the U.S.

started retreating back to a pre-civil rights era and here was Quiet Storm just kind of encouraging people to be calm and stay home and be domestic and make money.

Resentment was growing for Quiet Storm, which just felt more and more out of touch.

A new generation of artists and fans wanted something really different from black popular music.

When you look at the attitude when hip-hop arrived as a force, a lot of what hip-hop came to represent was antithetical to Quiet Storm.

This is music critic Nelson George again.

The ideas about what is acceptable in black music at that time had gotten very conservative.

Because now you're looking at a class of executives and radio programmers who are middle class, who are aspirational, who are cavassier drinkers, who are, you know,

they play backgammon at the club.

The gooey, apolitical, deeply unfunky sound of Quiet Storm had proven so successful that by the mid-1980s, it dictated what many major labels wanted from their black artists.

Record companies had locked in on so-called upscale urban audiences, and the gates were all but closed to black music that didn't appeal to those listeners.

This was exactly when and why rap music, which was relatively new at the time, kicked in the door.

So this whole hip-hop thing, sneakers?

We're wearing sneakers into the club?

No, we're not wearing sneakers into the club.

So what Quiet Storm became part of was a kind of calcification.

And so things became more about the mainstream.

You know, we get these records and they all sounded really shiny and glisteny.

Hip-hop comes in and begins to rebel against the smoothness.

Even as hip-hop took off in the late 1980s, Quiet Storm radio was still popular all over the country.

Kathy Hughes, the station manager who first dreamed up The Quiet Storm show, left WHUR decades ago and went on to start a giant media company.

Melvin Lindsay, the original voice of The Quiet Storm, left WHUR in 1985.

And wow, I've got to take a deep breath before I do this.

It's been nine years I've been here with The Quiet Storm at WHUR, and if you haven't heard by now, this is my last night.

At midnight, it's sign off and sign out.

There are so many people to thank and so much.

He was lured away by WKYS, another black station serving DC and a WHUR rival.

As proof of Melvin's star power, WKYS offered him a historic million-dollar multi-year contract to replicate his old show under the new name Melvin's Melodies.

Melvin had a huge career in radio and TV around Washington.

He was hosting a show on BET until he became too sick to work.

Melvin died of AIDS in 1992.

He was 36 years old.

So young.

Towards the end of his life, Melvin expressed a lot of gratitude for the love and support that he got from his fans.

He was a local celebrity.

People in DC loved him, still do.

Here he is in a phone interview not long before his death, talking about all the great food his supporters were sending to his bedside.

Apple pie,

lasagna,

brownies,

and people just,

I mean, unrealistic crime things to show their love.

There are still Quiet Storm shows everywhere, like the Sweat Hotel, hosted by Quiet Storm legend Keith Sweat.

WHUR still has its program, now called The Original Quiet Storm.

And hip-hop did not kill off the Quiet Storm sound.

Actually, a lot of rappers from a tribe called Quest to Kendrick to Drake have sampled or incorporated new and old school Quiet Storm into their music.

On his song Doomsday, you can hear MF Doom's sample of Shade, who was a Quiet Storm star.

You can also hear Quiet Storm in today's R ⁇ B, stuff you maybe didn't realize was a continuation of the genre.

I'd say over the past 10 years, the kinds of music that even pitchfork hipsters are listening to, it owes a lot to the legacy of Quiet Storm.

Stuff like Frank Ocean, stuff like Solange.

This is music that is, again, it's not trying to wake up the neighbors.

And it's soul music, it's R ⁇ B music.

This is music that is based in vibes, it's based in ambience.

As I've worked on this story, almost every black person I mentioned it to immediately recognized the Quiet Storm and knew something about the radio show across a range of ages from all over the U.S.

Even folks born well after Melvin Lindsay passed.

The story of Quiet Storm is that this is a genre of music really championed by black folks.

And during its heyday, it mostly stays within black communities.

This is ethnomusicologist Fredera Hadley again.

And that doesn't mean like, oh, no one can come in and participate.

But I think if one is going to talk about Quiet Storm,

that's one of the genres that demands that you center Black love, Black emotions.

It's not about marching.

It's not about.

being on soul train, like all these very kind of broadly visible things.

It's about black intimacy.

And I think that's part of what makes so much of the story, A Quiet Storm, important.

It's something that Black people name, created, and maintained for themselves.

The Grammy winner from Marvin Gaye, that's sexual healing.

Before that, from the album I Want You, we heard Come Live With Me, Angel.

It's 8:52 in Washington.

You're in tune to the quiet storm.

99% Invisible was produced this week by me, me, Christopher Johnson, and edited by Vivian Lay.

This episode was mixed by Martine Gonzalez with music by Swan Real, Jamila Sandoto, and George Langford.

Fact-checking by Nydia Batista.

Special thanks to Nelson George, who's working on a very cool new documentary.

It's called A Great Day in Hip Hop, the Film.

There's a link on our website.

Go check it out.

Show your love and support.

Special thanks also to the Black Radio Telling It Like It Was collection at the Indiana University Archives of African American Music and Culture.

Also, 99PI is throwing a quiet storm party.

DJ Ayana Heaven will be spending slow jam classics from the 70s and 80s, and it's all going down Sunday, July 27th in downtown Brooklyn and it's free.

Check out our website and socials for more info and if you're local or in town, come through.

Kathy Too is our executive producer.

Kurt Kalstett is the digital director.

The rest of the team includes Chris Barubay, Jason DeLeone, Emmett Fitzgerald, Delaney Hall, Lasha Madon, Kelly Prime, Joe Rosenberg, Jacob Medina Gleason, and the boss, Roman Mars.

He'll be back next week.

The 99% Invisible logo was created by Stefan Lawrence.

We are part of the SiriusXM podcast family, and this episode was produced in beautiful Brooklyn, New York.

You can find us on Blue Sky as well as our own Discord server.

There's a link to that as well as every past episode of 99% Invisible at 99pi.org.

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I'm going to put you on, nephew.

All right, huh.

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