Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul - Leila Taylor

Published in 2019 by Repeater Books, London, UK

203 pages

ISBN: 9781912248551

I have a confession to make: in the mid-2000s, I was a teenage emo kid. Decked out in mostly-black clothes, a studded belt, long hair that covered my eyes, and a pair of skinny jeans, to say that I was a bit of an outcast in the rural South would be a slight understatement. Along with my few emo friends in middle school, I obsessively listened to bands like My Chemical Romance, The Used, Underoath, Bullet for My Valentine, Brand New, and AFI. I tagged along with my sister to see Hawthorne Heights at a small venue in downtown Wilmington (RIP The Soapbox). I even read the entire corpus of Edgar Allen Poe’s work and memorized “The Raven” by heart. Needless to say, I was a walking stereotype. 

During this time of my life, music was the center of my world. I began to explore heavier and darker genres and naturally gravitated toward the soundscapes of metalcore, death metal, and symphonic metal, the latter of which primarily consisted of bands like Kamelot, Nightwish, Within Temptation, and more. As a teenage guy growing up watching MTV’s Viva La Bam and Jackass, I was also introduced to the world of gothic rock through Ville Valo’s band, HIM. This led me on a journey through the world of gothic metal, with bands such as Type O Negative, Lacuna Coil, Moonspell, as well as lesser-known bands like How Like a Winter, My Dying Bride, Entwine, and The Old Dead Tree. I have distinct memories of going to the record store in the mall, and having them special order obscure metal CDs for me to pick up in my small North Carolina town.

Part of me reveled in this sense of exclusion and difference. I was already an outcast socially at school, so why not embrace the weirdness and make it a part of my identity? The heavy, crunching guitars spoke to my teenage angst, while the dark, heartbreaking lyrics resonated in my introspective and sensitive little heart. Honestly, while I’ve grown up and matured in many ways, these songs still speak to me, even if in different ways. And in a way, the gothic genre still appeals to me and has shaped my work, as I studied monsters, Gothic literature, and alternative spirituality through my academic career. As a teenager, the world of gothic rock and metal felt like a security blanket for me, reminding me that the angst and sadness I felt was not weird or abnormal, but completely human and natural. They reminded me that I wasn’t alone, and I saw a lot of myself in these pale-skinned, melancholic, and angsty rockers. 

When we imagine the average goth, we typically think of a ghostly pale white person dressed in fanciful black clothes, black eyeliner, and dark lipstick. They might typically hang out in cemeteries and think about death to the point of romanticization. We may think that they are simply disaffected youth, rebelling against the authoritarian pressures of their parents. Yet, this overwhelmingly white subculture begs a crucial question: would someone like me find this subculture to be as relatable if my skin wasn’t pale, but black instead? In her 2019 book, Darkly: Black History and America’s Gothic Soul, Creative Director for the Brooklyn Public Library and self-described “AfroGoth” Leila Taylor (“pronounced lee-lah”) explores the connection between goth culture and the Black experience in America. 

Overview:

In her debut book, which is half memoir and half cultural critique, Taylor examines various aspects of the Gothic genre and explores their relationship to the experience of being Black in America. Whether discussing the monstrous in relation to the creation of race as a category, the haunting and horror of the Atlantic slave trade, the strength and multifaceted nature of the color black, the aesthetics of mourning and the injustices against Black Americans, the gothic threads of Billie Holiday’s song Strange Fruit, or our perverse fascination with urban decay that is often divorced from the unjust economic conditions that led to such scenes, Taylor seamlessly connects Afro-American history to the Gothic genre. Through both pop culture, personal stories, and historical examples, Taylor makes the argument that Blackness is Gothic, as they both “are performative identities with foundations in transgression, a familiarity with death, aestheticized mourning, and a keen awareness of the darker side of human nature” (31). While both are defined by a sense of “Otherness,” the goth aesthetic is something that is chosen and can be hidden, while Blackness is an identity one is born into and cannot simply take off like a costume. 

Along the way, Taylor expresses her struggles growing up to identify both as Black and a goth, which are often seen as a strange combination in the popular imagination. She tells us of her experience of growing up in Detroit (and the urban decay therein) as a young, gothic black girl. In both worlds, she existed as a kind of outsider. On one hand, she felt ostracized by the gothic genre because of its overwhelming white representation. On the other, she always felt like she didn’t fit in with a lot of other black girls her age, since her interests and hobbies were often seen as being “too white.” In one salient example, her father makes a passing, lighthearted comment on the myriad posters of white goth rock stars adorning the posters on her bedroom walls, asking her if the one image of a woman with dark skin was “her token black person” (13), making her question whether her predilection towards a white subculture was an implicit rejection of her Blackness. 

In her struggle for identity as a Black woman in a predominantly white subculture, Taylor recounts her experiences with both humor and honesty. For Taylor, to be both Goth and Black is a kind of redoubling of marginalization, an outsider among outsiders. To be Gothic doesn’t mean to just be sad and obsessing over death all the time, but rather to know what it means to live in the shadow side of life. Just as the Gothic identity serves as a reminder of death and imbibing “Otherness” with a sense of frivolity and camp, Blackness exists as a haunting reminder of America’s dark past that is so often repressed and kept hidden in the shadows of our consciousness. 

Commendations:

First and foremost, Taylor’s debut work is a remarkable synthesis of memoir and cultural analysis. Taylor analyzes a wide breadth of cultural materials, from goth bands spanning a wide variety of genres (such as Bauhaus and Gravediggaz) to Toni Morrison’s Beloved. She also integrates personal anecdotes from her own life of growing up as a Black goth, the tensions that arose from these seemingly conflicting identities, and how she has integrated them in constructive and innovative ways. Her central thesis (the link between the gothic and Blackness) is incredibly interesting and her argument is quite compelling. Taylor is spot on in calling out the insular nature and relatively racial homogeneity of goth culture, breaking its stereotypes, and forcing us to reconsider all things gothic, dark, and spooky in light of the experiences of Black America. She covers so much ground within a short 200 pages, but always engages the reader with a conversational tone. Her unique voice and experiences-- combined with her propensity for researching her topics well and describing them simply -- make this an immersive, yet quick and accessible read for popular audiences.

Furthermore, I appreciate the way that Taylor doesn’t merely regulate the genre of the Gothic to simply a subculture defined by dark clothes and even darker cynicism. Rather, she posits the Gothic as a mood, a stance, and even a performance. While I do not necessarily identify myself as a goth (at least externally in performance), I did deeply resonate with the sentiment that a Gothic stance to the world is defined by a sort of comfort in the shadows, fully recognizing, accepting, and honoring the roles of melancholy and death as an integral part of life. This careful attention to the dark underside of life, facing it without fear (indeed, even embracing it), and confronting life with a sense of romantic frivolity and whimsy is something that I can identify with, even if my wardrobe is not particularly theatrical or dramatic. 

Relatedly, the way Taylor relates this Gothic stance to the concept of Blackness in America (and her relationship between the two) is what makes this work truly stand out. My relationship with the subculture, as a white dude, is rather simple and uncontentious. Leila’s relationship with it, however, as a black woman, draws out deeper and more salient tensions within the subculture, pointing out its malleability and potential universality. Whereas I never felt pressured to choose between being white and having gothic tastes, Leila certainly has felt that tension between these two signifiers which call her to identify with them. This perhaps comes out and shows most prominently when it comes to the world of politics. 

While there are certain gothic values (individuality, an ironic skepticism, and cynicism toward authority, creativity, and sexual diversity), goth culture is usually rather apolitical, focusing on aesthetics over ethics or politics. This hesitation to advocate for social causes is one of the many ways in which goth culture differs from other counterculture movements, such as hippies or punks. This apolitical side of goth culture sometimes runs counter to Leila’s identification as a Black woman in America, which is illustrated when she realizes that she is deeply affected by the murder of an innocent black man that was live-streamed online, while her friends and colleagues go about their day scrolling past it without much thought. She also cannot separate the fascination with urban decay from the unjust economic conditions and historic role that racism has played in leaving those structures to rot in the first place. 

Ultimately, Taylor recognizes the value of gothic frivolity and whimsicality but also knows that it is also a privilege that has its limitations and shortcomings. In this way, Darkly confronts the reader with the history of slavery and injustice toward Black Americans in our history, utilizing the concept of the Gothic to illustrate the Black experience. From questioning whether the sea can be haunted with the souls of enslaved Africans that perished during the Middle Passage, to detailing the brutal murder of Emmett Till and the role his glass casket has as a kind of holy relic that recalls memories and confronts us with what we’d rather repress and keep buried, Taylor deftly and skillfully connects these topics, drawing up the deeper connections between them. 

Critique:

On the other hand, while Taylor’s decision to incorporate both personal anecdotes with cultural analysis makes for an accessible and engaging read, she doesn’t fully commit to either genre. While her central thesis is deeply interesting, rather than digging deep into this rich topic, Darkly only scratches the surface by repeatedly providing a series of examples without going too much in-depth. The examples she uses from goth culture are admittedly niche, which makes sense since goth culture itself is a niche culture. If you don’t have any background in goth culture and music (especially Siouxsie Sioux, Bauhaus, Joy Division, or the niche music scene in Brooklyn), however, you might not be able to relate to many examples in this book. Much to her credit though, in other places, she appeals to more popularly recognizable examples, such as Toni Morrison’s Beloved or the works of Edgar Allan Poe, and she does a remarkable job in describing the basic plotlines of more obscure works. But whether referencing niche goth bands or more popular works, Taylor bounces around from example to example and only loosely ties them together, which can make for a bit of a frustrating read if you’re looking for something with more analytical depth. There are so many interesting subtopics that this work briefly addresses that need more exploration and nuance, and some tangents split off in different directions, ultimately pulling focus away from each chapter’s main idea.

As such, if you’re looking for an in-depth, tightly focused, and comprehensive cultural analysis, you might be a bit frustrated by the constant tangents and fragmented structure of this book. Darkly reads more like a vast collage of interesting ideas that are ripe for exploration and development, but many of which are underdeveloped and eventually abandoned in favor of another example. If you can let go of that aspect, then it’s a thrilling and enjoyable read. Leila is a talented writer with a unique and deeply interesting voice, but perhaps the editors could have done a bit more to reign in some meandering tangents and help produce a more focused and forceful work. Also, a more thorough proofreader at Repeater could have caught a few proofreading and grammatical errors that are scattered throughout the text, such as chapter two’s title mixup in the notes section, as well as a few misspelled words and names through the text, such as Frederick Douglass’s last name (36). Again, I want to reiterate that Taylor’s ideas are no doubt well-worth considering and her writing is accessible and personable; her editors just needed to do a better job of fixing these small errors and helping to focus the scope of the book, which would help bring out its full potential.

Finally, there is also one final small critique that I want to point out, and I recognize that this point is entirely nitpicky and relatively inconsequential to the larger narrative of the book. The only reason I bring this up is because it is a historical inaccuracy that is specifically pointed out in Karen and Barbara Fields’s book, Racecraft: The Soul of Inequality in American Life. In Taylor’s brief aside on the Three-Fifths Compromise, she sets up the context by writing “in order to ensure that Southern states had more seats in the House of Representatives, it was proposed in 1787 that the total number of slaves in a state would be considered three-fifths the total number of white people. Five white people equaled three black people” (65) [emphasis mine]. This is a point that the Fields sisters make great pains to point out, as this is the popular way it is framed, even in popular history textbooks. 

As the Fields sisters remark in Racecraft, the language of the Three-Fifths Compromise never mentioned race, but rather distinguished between Free (which could include those of both European and African descent) and “Other” persons (essentially a euphemism for enslaved individuals). The three-fifths clause of the Constitution was a compromise, striking a balance between granting the full legal “personhood” of enslaved persons (which, as Taylor correctly points out, Southern slave owners wanted for increased representation in government) and their status as having no legal personhood (which, conversely, would be beneficial to Southern slaveholders in their direct taxes) (Racecraft, 118). As such, in repudiating the loose and uncareful language that is often used in common explanations of the compromise, Barbara Fields writes, “When well-meaning people affirm, for rhetorical effect, that the Constitution declared Afro-Amcericans to be only three-fifths human, they commit an error for which American historians themselves must accept the blame” (118). This commitment to a belief despite evidence to the contrary is, for Fields, a prime example of ideology, showing just how difficult it is for historians to deal with race on a historical basis, who instead resort to metaphysics or pseudo-biology. 

Again, this is a small point to make in the grander scheme of Taylor’s argument, and I don’t want to make a mountain out of a molehill or come across as pulling a Ben Shapiro style “well, actually.” The majority of enslaved individuals in America were, indeed, of African and Caribbean descent, so one can point out that while the language of the compromise didn’t directly address race, its effects certainly did. And I completely understand and agree with that sentiment. While it might be a bit pedantic, it is still a legitimate distinction to clear up, especially in light of reading Racecraft just before Darkly and noticing a repetition of this common misunderstanding. 

Conclusion: 

Overall, Darkley is a fascinating and unique examination of the connections between the Gothic genre and the Black experience in America. While uneven and fragmented in places, this book is an accessible and quick entry point into a plethora of different intersections that open the door for further exploration. It is a reminder that goth culture doesn’t solely belong to white people, and a call for the gatekeepers of the subculture to recognize their racial homogeneity and limitations, especially in addressing social issues. I imagine that many Black women who identify as goths, and who might otherwise feel unseen or unheard within the culture, will take comfort and strength in Leila’s work, knowing that they too are not alone. 

In asserting the gothic nature of Blackness, Taylor gives a beautiful and much-needed voice to a niche community that deserves to be heard, while also challenging us to reckon with our nation’s history of violence, death, and decay. The injustice against Afro-Americans in our country cannot be buried by passive, post-racial dismissal; the still-beating heart of slavery’s legacy lurks beneath the floorboards. And unless we bring it to the light, what we repress by day will continue to haunt us in the darkness of the night.