Philly’s Santigold reflects on her new album ‘Spirituals’ and her shout-out from Beyoncé
Making music was a lifeline for the Mount Airy-raised songwriter in the early days of the pandemic. Her fourth album is the result. "The Holified Tour" comes to Philadelphia in October.
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Santigold is back.
In 2008, Santi White broke through as a visionary success story with a debut album that defied categorization as it pointed toward a genre-free pop music future.
Punk, reggae, hip-hop, ska, dub: On the album originally called Santogold — then changed to Santigold, as was White’s stage name, after a lawsuit — White cut-and-pasted whatever she was inspired by, turning it into something irresistibly her own. “I’m a Creator,” she sang. “Thrill is to make it up.”
But before she was an exemplar of new-millennium cool, White was a Philly-born behind-the-scenes player struggling to make a name for herself.
The daughter of Ron White, an adviser to former Philly Mayor John F. Street who died in 2004, and Aruby Odom-White, a psychiatrist, she grew up in Mount Airy. After graduating from Wesleyan University, she worked as an A&R representative for Epic Records.
In 2001, she cowrote and produced How I Do, for Philly rock-soul artist Res, and lived in Philadelphia in the early ‘00s fronting Stiffed, a Bad Brains-influenced punk-rock band that never found commercial success.
White released Master of My Make-Believe in 2012 and 99¢ in 2016, and put out a terrific dancehall mixtape called I Don’t Want: The Goldfire Sessions, in 2018. She’s been an active collaborator, with Jay-Z, Beastie Boys, Spank Rock, Tyler, the Creator, and others.
Now, she’s returned with Spirituals, a thrilling, deeply personal album that the 45-year-old artist, who lives in Los Angeles with her husband, Trevor Andrew, and sons Radek and Honor, and daughter Icho, began work on early in the pandemic.
Next month, The Holified Tour will bring her to the Franklin Music Hall on Oct. 13.
And White has received the ultimate 2022 cosign. In “Break My Soul (Queens Remix),” Beyoncé mashed up the Renaissance single with Madonna’s “Vogue,” name-checking Black women in music throughout history.
The list puts White in illustrious company: “Rosetta Tharpe, Santigold,” rhymes with “Bessie Smith, Nina Simone.” (Philly artists Tierra Whack and Jill Scott also get shout-outs.)
White spoke from her home in Los Angeles about growing up in Philly, her forthcoming podcast (which is as-of-yet untitled and which she said would launch later this year), music industry frustration, and Queen Bey’s endorsement. The interview has been edited for length and clarity.
Good morning. How are you?
OK. I’m all right. I’ve been better. I hate the music industry.
What do you hate the most about it right now?
Almost every single part, except for making music. It’s just becoming more and more impossible to do it sustainably.
In 2016, 99¢ was a commentary on how music gets devalued. Now, 99¢ feels like way more than people are willing to pay for music.
Right. It’s only gotten worse. Making the music for me, this time, was better than ever. But then there’s the logistical question of how do I sustain this in these times? It’s a problem. I’ve been talking to so many artists and everyone is up against the wall trying to make it work.
Excitement over this record is high, though, and deservedly so. People are psyched to have Santigold back. Can you feel that?
Totally. But I find there’s a disconnect between people’s excitement and willingness to really support artists. Or they don’t even know that actually, artists can barely make a living anymore. It’s like, “I turned on a light switch, and there’s light. I click Spotify, and I get music.”
There’s no question like, “Hey, is this actually sustainable for artists anymore?” And touring now, I mean, gas is like triple what it was. Hotels, flights, videos. How do you keep delivering stuff that costs a lot of money, and you’re giving away what you made? It takes such a toll.
What can you tell me about the podcast?
I’m talking to artists. I’m talking to authors. People who I think are brilliant minds. I’ve got Saul Williams and Questlove and Angela Yee and Tunde Adebimpe from TV on the Radio. When I was making my album, I wound up having all these amazing conversations with my friends and it was like, ”Maybe we should take this out into the world?”
How did Philly help you develop as a person and an artist?
There are several things. One is growing up in Mount Airy. Even though it’s an urban neighborhood, and it’s part of Philadelphia proper, it feels very suburban. There’s so many trees and grass, and as a kid, I was riding around the neighborhood on my bike and just walking around by myself and I felt very safe.
I felt freer than I’ve ever felt in New York. You grind in New York. So after writing the Res record, I moved back to Philly to sort of disappear, so I could hone some skills and figure things out without being in the spotlight. I wouldn’t have been able to do that in New York. But in Philly, you could just disappear into, like, The Fire on Fourth and Girard and like, nobody knows you’re there. Nobody’s judging you.
I also think there’s a naturalness to people in Philadelphia, You go to the supermarket and everybody’s so real. I felt no pressure in how I looked growing up, how I was supposed to look as a girl or my appearance and my image.
And there are so many Black people in Philadelphia. I didn’t know that was a special feature of Philadelphia. … There are way less [Black people] in L.A., and also it’s so segregated.
Why’d you call this record Spirituals?
Because of what the process was for me. Right as the pandemic went into full swing is really when I started. And it was just this insane shock of being locked in the house. I had 2-year-old twins and a 6-year-old, and all of a sudden had no help with anything. So I was the only one that knew how to cook every meal. I was cleaning, deep cleaning, changing diapers. I couldn’t shower half the time, and I couldn’t even think. There was just no time.
And then outside, there were wildfires blazing in California. You’re like: “Oh my God, we’re ruining the planet.” And then you had Black people getting murdered left and right, which is not new, but at that moment, it was just, like, right in your face, and you had the protests and the riots. And this looming pandemic. It was so overwhelming that I was in complete survival mode.
Then, somehow, because I needed to literally to keep my sanity, I went to the back house, at least like three hours every two days, and only because my mom ended up staying with us. And I just started recording. It was the only place that I got to inhabit my full self. I realized these songs were my way inward, and then up and out.
So it was transcendental in the way that Negro spirituals were transcendental for slaves. How they experienced freedom and joy in times where they were not free, and it was not joyous. It was through spirituals. So I named this album Spirituals because that’s what the songs did for me, not because they sound like traditional spirituals at all.
Where were you when you heard about the Beyoncé remix?
I was actually in Jamaica. I was literally sitting staring at the ocean and my phone starts blowing up. “Beyoncé, just put you in a song!” I really just didn’t understand. Then finally somebody managed to send it to me, and I was like, “Wow!” I was especially excited when I heard the other names mentioned. It’s cool on many levels. I’m happy to be mentioned with Nina Simone and Bessie Smith and Sister Rosetta Tharpe. And Grace Jones.
Also, I thought it was really cool that considering the original version of “Vogue” had all the white Hollywood stars, that Beyoncé used that platform to highlight Black women who have been important in history and music. I’m glad to be recognized in that light. And Beyoncé is somebody who’s come to my shows, she’s been supportive. It’s not new to me to see how I’ve influenced pop culture. I’m just glad somebody mentioned it.