Black Mahogani

So much about Moodymann’s persona today feels mythic. He doesn’t do many interviews; he performs behind a white sheet, supposedly carrying out nasty acts with a lady friend: “I ain’t going to say what I’m doing behind there half the time,” he explained, “but I promise it’s the real deal going on.” But behind all the kayfabe, his ethos is grounded in community. Underground Resistance founder Mike Banks described the artist born as Kenny Dixon Jr. as “a teacher more so than a DJ.” His efforts to highlight local Detroit talent extend from his early stint immersing himself in the local scene while working at Buy Rite Records to his Mahogani record label to his guest radio station in Grand Theft Auto V. Whatever year you might find him in, with whatever snazzy hairdo he might be rocking, Detroit will always show up in his work—whether it’s a collaboration with a smaller artist or a New Era x Moodymann Detroit Tigers bucket hat. Behind the myth of Moodymann is a Detroit native steeped in Black egalitarian politics, a man who just wants to give back to his city.

Black Mahogani—first released in 2004 and reissued on vinyl for the first time in a decade—is KDJ’s love letter to Black Detroit and one of the most ambitious house records of all time. In an interview with Red Bull Music Academy, he recalled being surrounded by Black life during his upbringing, only coming into direct contact with white people “on TV or at the door shutting shit off.” Extensive sampling techniques capture this well; Marvin Gaye samples appear just as quickly as snippets of background noise that KDJ claims came from friends and community members walking in and out of the door as the tracks were being recorded. Black Mahogani feels like being dropped right into a neighborhood in Black Detroit in the early aughts, where dance music feels just as familiar as a grill in the front yard or the vibrations from a Cadillac with newly installed speakers.

Sounds associated with spaces of Black resistance are stitched together with the precision of a neurosurgeon. In “Runaway,” Detroit local Roberta Sweed sing-talks short phrases in her baritone voice like a pastor giving a sermon, and the warm e-piano stabs give it even more of a church feel. Norma Jean Bell’s saxophone lines echo from afar, like the jazz club is located just next door; similarly, the four-on-the-floor house kicks pump through the front of the mix, evoking a club environment. All of these threads tie together naturally, speaking to how Black music genres inform one another. The juxtapositions reimagine Black public spaces as self-sustaining ecosystems that people give to and take from, hubs that prioritize new ways of learning and feeling outside of the crippling grip of White hegemony.

Throughout the record, Moodymann conjures deep feelings of sexual overindulgence. “Oohs” and “ahhs” and a chugging smoothness indebted to repetition and warm mixes give rise to a horniness both self-aware and humorous. The moan samples on “Roberta Jean Machine” are exaggerated, even uncomfortable, but when they interact with the angelic harp glissandi and pads, they’re less pornographic than spiritual. It sounds like the music is working through these people in ways that don’t feel easily recognizable, suggesting that catching the holy ghost can feel as rapturous as climaxing on the dancefloor. On the bare “Riley’s Song,” a shriek of “Eoowwwww!” echoes against the haunting atmosphere created by oscillating keys and large pockets of space. Even on the darkest track of the album, this moment makes things hot and steamy, Moodymann letting up on his usual high energy for his playfully erotic vision of a slow dance.

Black Mahogani straddles between its utility as a collection of dance songs and its scope as a storybook—a quality that makes it feel timeless. “Mahogani 9000,” the penultimate track, opens with a Blaxploitation sample of a woman discussing how white people in downtown Detroit are a “1-to-9 minority,” and eventually fades in and out of four different grooves, incorporating more cultural Black samples (like Curtis Mayfield repeatedly shouting “I’m that nigga!) and sampling other tracks on the album against stuttered drums and guitar licks à la ’70s Miles. These rapid and stark groove changes feel like infractions against a traditional house structure where the beat of a single track should ride out for a certain amount of time, but that is precisely the point. “Mahogani 9000” wields various drum patterns to situate it in the context of a Detroit dance set from its era, and it manipulates its malleable surroundings via samples to breed more possibilities of sociopolitical commentary. The incessant and addictive rhythms let it go off in the club, but the subtext could slip by when you’re sweaty and drowning on gin-and-tonics. It is an active piece of work that asks but doesn’t beg for audience participation, allowing us to meet it where we wish: an ethnography evocative enough to dance to and personal enough to exude Moodymann’s genuine love for his city.