In August Wilson’s “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom,” Ma Rainey fights to control what happens to her music once she enters the recording studio. Today, musicians are confronting a new question: What happens when artificial intelligence can profit from the identity attached to their music?

Round House Theatre’s production of “Ma Rainey’s Black Bottom,” which runs through Oct. 18 in Bethesda, Maryland, brings an older struggle over artistic control to the stage. Set during a recording session in 1920s Chicago, Wilson’s play follows Ma and her band as conflicts over art, money and control expose the imbalance between the musicians creating the work and the people conducting the business around it. That same question of who can profit from an artist’s value is now being tested in a very different setting nearly a century later.

Musicians Jason Isbell, David Lowery, Guy Forsyth and Eduardo Calle filed a class-action lawsuit on Aug. 31 against AI music company Suno. They allege that the company commercially exploits artists through an AI system capable of generating music imitating artists’ identities and styles without permission. Suno disputes the allegations.

The U.S. Copyright Office has also studied AI-generated digital replicas and recommended federal legislation to address gaps in protections against unauthorized replicas of a person’s voice or appearance. Its broader AI inquiry received more than 10,000 public comments.

For Nicole Michelle Haskins, who portrays Ma Rainey in the Round House production, the struggle over power begins with understanding Ma as more than a demanding recording star.

“She is the only advocate she has,” Haskins said. “The choices presented to her are to surrender or fight. Ma chooses to fight.”

Haskins said Ma enters the recording studio knowing the value that she brings, even as the people around her repeatedly challenge her decisions. She exercises her leverage and pushes back when others attempt to dictate how the session will proceed.

The real Gertrude “Ma” Rainey was one of the earliest Black women to record blues commercially. Between 1923 and 1928, she made more than 100 recordings for Paramount Records, according to the Smithsonian.

One surviving agreement shows how at least part of that business worked. A Dec. 12, 1923, royalty agreement for “Walking Blues,” signed by Rainey and composer Lovie Austin, provided them two cents for each printed piano copy sold in the United States and Canada. They were also entitled to one-fourth of the royalties the publisher received from mechanical reproductions, minus a 10% collection cost.

For Haskins, portraying a character negotiating those relationships does not feel entirely removed from being an artist today.

“The life that I live as an artist is not that dissimilar from the world that August Wilson has written,” Haskins said.

The technology surrounding artists, however, has changed dramatically.

The scale of AI-generated music has grown quickly. In July, streaming service Deezer said it was receiving about 90,000 fully AI-generated tracks a day, more than half of its daily uploads. Those tracks accounted for less than 3% of all streams.

The lawsuit against Suno is not primarily a traditional copyright case about whether an AI-generated song copied a particular recording. Instead, the musicians rely largely on state right-of-publicity laws, which concern the commercial use of a person’s identity.

According to the complaint, users can enter musicians’ names and use them as a retrieval key for AI-generated music drawing on characteristics associated with those artists. The plaintiffs argue that an output does not have to copy a specific song or perfectly reproduce an artist’s voice for the artist’s commercial identity to be exploited.

Suno disputes that characterization of its technology. The company has said it does not use artists’ names as training metadata and does not permit users to prompt its system for specific artists. Suno says references to artists are filtered and redirected toward descriptions of musical characteristics. Its own prompting guide, for example, encourages users to describe features such as tempo, vocals and instrumentation, using phrases like “bright pop track,” “110 BPM,” “female vocals” and a “big synth hook.”

The Suno dispute centers on more than ownership of a particular song or recording. It raises the question of whether an artist’s name, likeness and other identifying characteristics can be used commercially to generate new music without permission.

Haskins resists describing that underlying conflict as merely contemporary.

“I don’t think they feel contemporary,” Haskins said of Ma’s concerns. “I think they feel worldly.”

For Haskins, AI is one setting for a larger struggle over who has power over creative work. She said the problem of Black people being separated from control of things they created has existed far longer than the technology now raising those questions. The Library of Congress notes that early record companies sometimes used white performers to record music associated with Black artists rather than hire the Black performers themselves, while Black musicians remained rare on early commercial recordings.

“It just hasn’t stopped happening,” she said.

That interpretation shapes the way Haskins portrays Ma’s fight for control. She pointed to a brief moment in the second act when Ma’s manager attempts to steer her toward a different song. Ma refuses and proceeds with the recording she intends to make.

Haskins said the moment stands out precisely because Ma does not need a dramatic confrontation to establish who has the final say.

“She’s not demanding control. She’s not asserting control,” Haskins said. “She is simply positioning herself in correct order.”

La Tetra Metts-Owens is a reporter forHUNewsService.com. She covers Prince George’s County and theater.

Based on reporting by Howard University News Service.

Who decides what the future looks like? For generations, science fiction and pop culture have handed us the answer. Artist Fabian Williams opened Mothership Sirius B, a three-story immersive art installation, to offer a different one.

Atlanta Students Help Shape the Exhibit

Inside the art installation at 12 Jackson St in Atlanta, the project’s community roots are what set it apart. Students from Morgan Oliver School, Maynard Jackson High School, and Georgia Tech created original artwork that runs through the whole show. It all leads to the Future Lab, a room built for conversation, creativity, and imagining what comes next together.

Williams also sat down with many of the students to ask what kind of future they want to build. Their answers give a real look at how Atlanta’s next generation pictures its city. The Mayor’s Office of Cultural Affairs, led by Adriane Jefferson, is a confirmed institutional partner.

What “Sirius B” Means

The exhibit covers six decades across its three floors, and the name carries the idea behind it. Sirius A and B form a double star system that can’t be seen with the naked eye. According to a story Afrofuturist thinkers often cite, the Dogon people of Mali knew of it centuries before Western astronomers confirmed it. For those thinkers, it shows that Black communities have always held knowledge about the future that mainstream culture was too narrow to notice. Williams puts it this way: the vessel “was always there.”

Pop Culture, Black Empowerment, and Political Commentary

The work plays pop culture against themes of Black empowerment, and it doesn’t hide its disdain for President Donald J. Trump. Many pieces use lenticular printing, so the image changes as you move. A familiar original shifts into Williams’ own take.

Inside the Exhibit, Floor by Floor

First floor: America in the 1950s. Mint green walls and checkerboard linoleum set the scene. The art draws on posters for “The Twilight Zone,” “Planet of the Apes,” and “Soylent Green,” which expose the fears and false assumptions white Americans held about Black Americans.

Second floor: the 1980s and 1990s. This level looks at the privatization of public life. The centerpiece of the 1990s section is “Malcolm Morpheus: Matrix Version v.68,” a lenticular print that flips between Morpheus from “The Matrix,” palms open with a red pill and a blue pill, and Malcolm X in the same pose. The wall text says Malcolm X “offered society the red pill of hard truths.”

Third floor: Black Jesus and the Future Lab. A huge painting of Black Jesus greets you on arrival. The first room off the hallway, the Garden of Jza, breaks from Williams’ usual style. Its collages show civil rights figures, including Jimmy Carter, Martin Luther King Jr., and Malcolm X, alongside their spouses, drifting through peaceful landscapes in vintage cars.

The Future Lab is a lounge-style think tank with bean bag seating, curated music, and a black-lit “aether room.” Visitors are invited to write their hopes and prayers for the future on sticky notes and leave them behind.

Tickets and Admission

• General admission: $20 per person, includes one drink ticket
• RSVP without a drink: $15
• Children ages 5 to 16: $10
• Children under 5: $5

Buy tickets through Eventbrite at isawmothership.com. To support the exhibition, you can donate through Satellite Collective at secure.givelively.org/donate/satellite-collective-inc/mothership-atl.

NEW YORK — For anyone raised in the Caribbean, or in a Brooklyn, Bronx, or Queens household where the radio stayed tuned to home, there was never a time without the Mighty Sparrow. His voice was simply part of the furniture of our lives: at Carnival, at weddings, at Sunday lunch, in the car on the way to JFK. On Sunday, that voice went quiet.

Slinger Francisco, known to the world as the Mighty Sparrow, died Sunday, September 27, in New York. He was 91. His family said he passed peacefully after a brief illness, with loved ones at his bedside.

He was born in Grand Roy, Grenada, in 1935, and was still a small child when his family moved to Trinidad. Port of Spain made him. Its yards, its rum shops and its calypso tents gave him his rhythm and his sharp tongue. He sang in a church choir as a boy, but the city had a louder music, and by his late teens he was performing under the name that would become a title.

The breakthrough came in 1956 with “Jean and Dinah,” his mischievous farewell to the American servicemen leaving Trinidad after the war years. The song swept Carnival, winning him both the Road March and the Calypso King crown. It introduced a young performer who could be funny and fearless at once, who could make an entire nation laugh at itself and then think hard about what it had just laughed at.

He was fearless offstage too. A year after that first crown, he refused to compete over the paltry prize money offered to calypsonians, a stand that helped push the art form toward the respect and the pay its practitioners deserved.

Over six decades, he recorded hundreds of songs. He could turn a love story, a boast or a bit of bedroom comedy into a hit, but he was just as formidable when the subject was power. “Dan Is the Man in the Van” took apart a colonial schooling that taught Caribbean children nonsense about themselves. “Congo Man,” “Mr. Walker,” “The Lizard” and “Both of Them” became standards sung by people who had never set foot in a calypso tent. Long before anyone printed it on a poster, audiences had already crowned him the Calypso King of the World.

For New York’s Caribbean community, Sparrow was never just a visiting star. He made this city his home for many years and played its biggest rooms, including Madison Square Garden, before crowds of immigrants who heard in his voice the islands they had left behind. A Sparrow show here was less a concert than a homecoming.

Trinidad and Tobago honored him with the Trinity Cross, then its highest national award, and generations of calypsonians and soca artists have named him as the standard they measured themselves against. Fans called him “Birdie,” and the affection in that nickname said everything.

Tributes are already pouring in from across the region and the diaspora, and they will keep coming for weeks. But perhaps the truest tribute is the simplest one: somewhere tonight, in Port of Spain, St. George’s, Flatbush and beyond, someone is putting on a Sparrow record, turning it up, and singing along.

Based on reporting by New York Carib News.

By Carla Thomas

More than 75 people gathered at Youth UpRising in East Oakland on Friday, Sept. 18, for Coliseum 60, a celebration honoring six decades of sports, entertainment, employment and community memories connected to the Oakland-Alameda County Coliseum Complex.

Held 60 years to the day after the Coliseum opened, the event carried the theme, “One Community. One Legacy. One Future. Forward Together.”

The celebration opened with the national anthem performed by sisters Anese Jade, Amina Benjamin and Zaza Benjamin. Diamano Coura West African Dance Company contributed African dance and drumming, bringing movement, rhythm and cultural expression to the program.

A mini documentary highlighted the Coliseum’s sports history and its broader role as an entertainment destination. Archival material recalled performances by Prince and Tina Turner, along with memorable games featuring the Warriors, Oakland A’s and Raiders.

“The Coliseum 60 is about much more than celebrating a building or looking back at 60 years of history,” said event organizer Quixote Atkins of VillageGIVE.

“It’s about the people who made that history possible: the families, workers, athletes, artists, community leaders, fans and generations who gathered there and created memories together.”

A panel exploring that history featured author, historian and former Black Panther Party member Tareka Lewis; stagehand and union representative Keith Brown; and Ray Bobbitt, president of the African American Sports and Entertainment Group AASEG. Lewis described her family as fourth-generation Bay Area pioneers.

“My family and Black families who arrived even earlier helped build the Bay Area, grew businesses and established culture here,” Lewis said. “This should be taught in the public schools.”

Lewis recalled Oakland’s influence on sports, music and literature, from the Raiders’ beginnings at Laney College to stars such as The Pointer Sisters and Rickey Henderson who attended Oakland public schools. She also advocated for school museums, historical timelines, entrepreneurship training and investments benefiting corridors such as Bancroft Avenue and High Street.

Keith Brown, a member of Local 107 of the International Alliance of Theater and Stage Employees (IATSE) who began working at the Coliseum in 2011, remembered the Ringling Bros. and Barnum & Bailey Circus, the Ice Capades, baseball bat giveaways and Nelson Mandela’s 1990 appearance.

“The special events are amazing, but it’s the workers that make the memories real for everyone,” Brown said. “They make the magic happen at the Coliseum.”

The program recognized longtime workers, including beer-stand manager Robert Preston, who served for 40 years, and Kenyatta Gentry, who worked as a vendor for 24 years and used her earnings to purchase her first apartment. Union workers Jose Gonzales and Carmen Sandoval were also honored. Speakers emphasized that Coliseum employment provided generations of residents with union wages and benefits.

Dr. Denise Saddler, the superintendent of the Oakland Unified School District (OUSD) was also honored. Saddler shared her family’s history of working at the Coliseum. 

District 7 Oakland City Councilmember Ken Houston discussed the complex ownership arrangements involving the city, county and private interests.

“This was the most complex deal of its kind in the country,” Houston said.

Prior to moving from the East Coast, Alameda County Supervisor and Coliseum Joint Powers Authority Chair Nate Miley recalled learning about Oakland through its three professional sports teams. As an elected official and public servant, Miley fought hard to keep the Golden State Warriors, Oakland As, and the Raiders, but he is hopeful for the future.

“The story is not over for the Coliseum,” Miley said. “We’re entering a new chapter.”

Bobbitt said the departure of three teams had once seemed unimaginable, but he maintained that Oakland’s future remains bright.

“Oakland is a cultural superpower worldwide,” Bobbitt said. “We’re going to write the future where we participate and drive the redevelopment.”

Bobbitt highlighted AASEG’s four-year partnership with Castlemont High School’s architecture program, which engages students in reimagining and creating redevelopment concepts for the Coliseum property. “The youth will always move us forward. They are the future.”

In closing, Atkins said, “September 18 is the celebration, but what we build together afterward is the legacy.”

WASHINGTON — Among the more than 100 policy forums and brain trusts at this year’s Congressional Black Caucus Foundation Annual Legislative Conference was a conversation about influence itself: who has it, and what they do with it.

"Platforms & Purpose: A Conversation With Black Men Leveraging Their Reach" brought together actor and activist Kendrick Sampson, Rep. Jasmine Crockett, media personality Jason Lee, singer Eric Benét and rapper and radio host Yung Joc. The session looked at how entertainers, creators and elected officials can turn public attention into real-world change.

The panel took place at the 55th Annual Legislative Conference, a five-day event in Washington that began Wednesday. This year’s theme is "Rooted, Ready & Rising," and the conference coincides with the CBC Foundation’s 50th anniversary. CBCF President and CEO Nicole Austin-Hillery has said the gathering is meant to "combine celebration with purpose," while taking up issues including voting rights, economic opportunity, education, health disparities and criminal justice.

That mix of celebrity and policy is a long-running feature of the conference, which brings lawmakers, advocates, entrepreneurs, students and entertainers into the same rooms. The panel’s premise reflects a broader question as creators reach audiences that rival traditional media.

A career built on both stage and street

Sampson is a natural fit for that conversation. The Houston native is known for television and film work, including HBO’s Insecure, and for his activism off screen. He co-founded BLD PWR, a 501(c)(3) nonprofit that combines entertainment, education and activism.

The organization says its mission is to "reimagine and realize the liberated future we know our people deserve." It works to mobilize entertainment-industry figures and organize communities around racial, gender, immigration, economic and environmental justice, mental health and wellness, and opposition to state violence. BLD PWR emphasizes storytelling and community healing, and it centers the voices of Black, Indigenous and other marginalized communities.

What to watch

The conference runs through Sunday at the Walter E. Washington Convention Center. Details on sessions and registration are available through the CBC Foundation.

Based on reporting by Columbus Times.

Author: Eriq La Salle, Copyright: c.2026, Publisher: Poisoned Pen Press, SRP: $18.99, Page Count: 304 pages

Finally, after so much work, you’ve left your past behind.

That’s what you tell yourself: what’s done is done and you can’t undo history. It’s over. You try not to think about last month, last year, a decade back because what does it matter? As in the new novel, “Laws of Solomon” by Eriq La Salle, remembering is too full of pain.

The monsters that came to him early in his sleep were the easy ones. It was the later demons that stole Solomon Nangobi’s sleep, the spirits of all the people he killed when he was a child soldier in Uganda, and when he was a fixer in New York as an adult. Their ghosts called to him with urgent voices, though he left that life behind long ago.

Now, his days were filled working the soil in gardens near Malibu, and he loved the quiet life.

Still, he kept his guns.

And he was glad: when Solomon recognized two Zeta gunmen stalking a well-dressed man, woman, and child through the gardens, he couldn’t walk away. He stopped the gangsters with bullets, but not before the adults and their bodyguards were dead. The child, an 8-year-old boy named Gaby, was safe, but Gaby couldn’t tell Solomon what was going on.

What became quickly certain, however, was that Solomonwas now Gaby’s guardian, and the Zeta crime boss wanted them dead, too.

When he was the same age as Gaby, Solomon saw unspeakable things, the murder of his parents, the destruction of his homeland, and the atrocities that Uganda dictator Idi Amin’s soldiers committed. He learned to kill, he observed, and he was hardened, understanding as a small boy that revenge was often necessary and needed, and that blood would shed at those times.

But Gaby was pure, an innocent, a child.

Solomon reached out to his contacts to try to get the boy to safety, but being a contact of a marked man was likewise a dangerous thing: the monsters outside were worse than the ones inside him.

Two words for you: ‘Whoo weee.’ That’s what you’re going to say when you close the back cover of “Laws of Solomon,” knowing that you’ve just been taken on a wild up-and-down, around-and-round ride.

La Salle makes it impossible not to like Solomon, an African man who has, over time, lost nearly everything dear to him and who has no faith in much of anything. Readers get that part of the story eventually, and there’s historical authenticity in some of it, but we never really get to know Solomon, which makes the book feel dark and dangerous. Along the way, we meet and get to know his helpers, which buoys Solomon’s chase to find safety for the boy, and your heart won’t stop pounding.

Keep in mind that this is a thriller partially set in 1970s Uganda, so expect lots of violence but don’t expect a lot of people to live. If you’re up for that, find “Laws of Solomon.” You won’t be able to leave it behind.