by Tarisai Ngangura
I’d like to believe that Lucille Bogan never had bad sex.
That this woman born in Armory, Mississippi—home of languid, sticky Summer nights, and equally humid Winters—knew what made her feel good and was unashamed to expect it. To demand it. A child of Blues and a contemporary of Ma Rainey and Bessie Smith, Bogan is an oft-forgotten but no less remarkable pioneer of the era, notable for making a name for herself as a “dirty” Blues singer. In the after hours, when bars were smoky from cigarettes and the mood hazy with strong liquor and limp inhibitions, Bogan would take the stage and sing you all the way to bed. If you wound up there alone, it was no one’s fault but your own. With Bogan on the mic, lust was inevitable, consent unnegotiable and ecstasy the end goal. I’d really like to believe she never had bad sex.
A laughable amount of articles were published following the release of “WAP,” the Cardi B-helmed anthem featuring Megan Thee Stallion. Political pundits recoiled in conservative shock and disbelief at the ways these two women rappers proclaimed their arousal. Former congressional candidate DeAnna Lorraine tweeted that the song was “disgusting” and “vile,” while GOP candidate James P. Bradley wrote “Cardi B & Megan Thee Stallion are what happens when children are raised without God and without a strong father figure.” The personal offence that listeners took to the song was comical, but also a deeply insidious policing of Black women and their right to assert pleasure, revel in expressing desire, and declare that sex is a regular part of their everyday lives. The outrage made it seem like what the artists did was new; a novel approach to creative expression aligning with the Black feminine. But in the early 19th century, Lucille Bogan was singing about sexual healing long before lyrics could be hashtagged and turned into tongue-in-cheek Instagram captions.
It was during a 1923 stint in Atlanta that Bogan released some of her vaudeville-inspired songs, including her popular hit “Pawn Shop Blues,” known for being a Blues Ballad recorded beyond the genre hubs of Chicago and New York. She would be most prolific in the early 1930s, around the same time that her work became more explicit. It was then that she settled into the type of artistry that let her sing for queer folks, sex workers and the woeful, unsatisfied women. “Tricks Ain’t Walkin No More” is a somber, yet oddly charming track released just as the Great Depression was taking its hold on Americans, destabilizing the middle class and utterly devastating the already marginalized poor and Black. On the single, Bogan is the narrator—a down on her luck sex worker who can’t go about her business because the economic crisis has robbed her of her clientele and forced her to make money in less desirable ways.
“Times done got hard, money done got scarce/Stealin’ an’ robbin’ is goin to take place/ Cos tricks ain’t walkin’, tricks ain’t walkin’ no more.” She sounded desperate but resigned, ready to do what she needed to make it by, but also aware of the deeply trying times ahead. She sang like a woman who knew her world had drastically changed and she either needed to pivot quickly, or be carried away off into complete ruin. Her voice wasn’t as melodic or as powerful as the belting Ma Rainey, but there’s an ease to her delivery, a quiet assurance in her tone and a recognizable comfort with the subject matter. She didn’t sing to be scandalous, but to share what she saw, what she might have lived and what interested her about the needs of people.
“B.D. Woman’s Blues,” the B.D. standing for “Bulldagger,” is the kind of hit that turns into a local legend when performed—the type of show where you can remember your location and response at first listen. When I first heard the song I was searching the Internet for archives completely unrelated to music and I came across an audio file with a photo of a Black woman with a wide, almost cheeky smile, wearing a large headwrap. Fast playing piano keys made way for the confidently stated first line: “Comin' a time, B.D. women ain't gonna need no men.” She then goes on to sing, “Oh the way they treat us is a lowdown and dirty sin/B.D. women, you sure can't understand/ B.D. women, you sure can't understand/They got a head like a sweet angel and they walk just like a natural man.” Bogan had no trouble with performing the “obscene” as seen by her turn on the Ma Rainey single, “Shave Em Dry,” proclaiming “I got nipples on my titties big as the end of my thumb/I got somethin' 'tween my legs 'll make a dead man come.”
Bogan could be as vulgar as the best of them—”Now if fuckin' was the thing/That would take me to heaven/I'd be fuckin' in the studio/Till the clock strike eleven/Oh daddy, daddy shave 'em dry/I would fuck you baby/Honey I'd make you cry,”—hollering and screaming words that would raise eyebrows and garner smirks. She could make you squirm in your seat, for a variety of reasons. “Now your nuts hang down like a damn bell sapper/And your dick stands up like a steeple/Your goddam ass-hole stands open like a church door/And the crabs walks in like people/Ow, shit!”— but she shined best and was most disruptive when she dabbled in subtext. With a wink and a nudge, an intentional turn of phrase and a slight shift in cadence she told you something other than what she was singing. “B.D. women, they all done learnt their plan/B.D. women, they all done learnt their plan/They can lay their jive just like a natural man.”
Again, this was Depression-era America. So while times were rough and many were forced out of their comfort zones, societal expectations still dictated that women should practice modesty, raise children and take care of the home, while making weekly appearances at church services to receive blessings and nods of approval. For Black people, a desperate need to assert humanity meant these types of respectability politics were even more severe and women carried the brunt of the suffocating weight.
Not one for leaving out any type of “wayward behaviour” she also lent her voice to the woes of the “Whiskey Selling Woman.” Those who skirted convention and joined the sordid industry of the illegal booze trade, turning their homes into production factories and taking care of their own with prohibition green.
Cardi B and Megan Thee Stallion are successors of the creative legacy that Lucille Bogan carved in stone, drenched in whiskey and laid alongside spent, sweaty, satiated bodies. Bogan made it possible for Foxy Brown, MC Lyte, Roxanne Shanté and the City Girls to come on the scene and à la Lil’ Kim squat for a photo while wearing leopard-print lingerie. She made it possible for 2 Live Crew to argue in the American Supreme Court that their explicit music was not mischief and profanity but part of a long line in African-American oral storytelling and vernacular. Bogan is the blueprint.
“buT bAck iN tHe DaY My gRanDmoTHer diDn’t Do it LiKe thAt.”
No, they did it even better and louder.
