Renata Yazzie considers herself a musicologist, advocate and supporter of Indigenous music and musicians — whether she’s making music herself, or studying at Columbia in New York.

"Everything I do is in support of Native people pursuing their musical love," the Diné classical pianist tells GRAMMY.com. "Whether that be teaching, uplifting their music, filling in on keys for a band, promoting shows or writing about them for different outlets, teaching music, or teaching piano… I aim to just help Native musicians get the tools they need to make the music they want to make."

While her work braids Native and classical influences, Yazzie is attuned to sounds across the Indigenous musical spectrum; for instance, she tipped off GRAMMY.com about Levi Platero, a blazing New Mexican blues guitarist who hails from the Navajo Nation.

And as 2023 winds down, Yazzie's championing a panoply of Indigenous acts, from a neo-soul groove machine to a heavy metal fiddler — and below, she explains why she is. Some wear their identities and heritages in more elaborate displays, and some less so — which is just as valid.

"In terms of Indigenous artistry in music and in film and in TV, we are in a moment where Native people are negotiating their own terms with how they want their identity and their art to be connected or not connected," she explains, referring to sensations like "Reservation Dogs." "They're negotiating that on their own terms, and it's an act of sovereignty for us to be able to do that. We haven't always been able to do that."

With this in mind, open your hearts and ears to this cross-section of Indigenous talent, as the curtain opens for Native American Heritage Month 2023.

Earth Surface People

Led by Dakota Yazzie — no relation to Renata — Earth Surface People is a genre-fluid collective with a Navajo core: Yazzie, and his synth-playing younger brother, Cochise Yazzie, are Diné.

Skillfully weaving threads of jazz, fusion, R&B, soul, the group's sound achieves a seamless dialogue between Indigenous and Black American musics — driven home by the artistry of a key collaborator, in Diné vocalist Nanibaah. This aural tapestry is heard on their latest album, 2022's nihook​á​á​ʼ diyin dine​ʼ​é (Earth Surface People).

"Earth Surface People came from a need to tell Indigenous stories, places, history, attitude. It's something I saw a lack of growing up in rural Arizona," Dakota Yazzie told Shoutout Arizona. I grew up around my traditional people: farmers, storytellers, medicine people, jewelers, weavers, artists, revolutionaries, creatives.

"I found a lot of solace in their stories of survival and their stories of triumph," he continued. "How some overcame extraordinary odds with minimal resources."

"I think their work is important because they're pushing Native music into new sounds," Renata Yazzie says, "You don't hear a lot of Native bands that sound like Earth Surface People….. [They're] continuing to showcase that Native people can make whatever sounds they want, and they do."

Ailani

Hailing from Santa Clara Pueblo, New Mexico, the mononymous Ailani — born Ailani Swentzell — is an up-and-coming singer/songwriter who's been committed to the craft since high school.

And the first thing you'll absorb about the indie-popper's driving and intimate sound is her bell-like tone as a vocalist.

"She has got such a clear, pristine, pretty voice," Yazzie says, noting that Ailani comes from a long line of artists, including visual art and ceramics. As she continues, Ailani represents a milieu of young, Native artists who simply write quality songs and put them out there.

"She was always the youngest. And what she was putting out was very well done," Yazzie says of her early perception of Ailani. "And I think her voice is what makes her quite unique."

When Ailani released her last album, 2022's Mortified, she made it clear she was broaching uncharted territory for her artistry.

"I am proud that I broke out of my usual shell a bit. This isn't a usual Ailani heartbreak/falling in love album — don't worry though, you'll still get a solid share of those themes," Ailani told Grimy Goods. She went on to explain that Mortified's title is an unflinching reference to self-hatred, and overcoming it.

"There are so many different things going on in this album, but I like it. I like how it's sort of unapologetically thrown together," Ailani said. "It needs to be, because not everything is clean-cut storylines."

Tinge

Tinge represents the Anishinaabe star in the Indigenous cosmology, as well as that of the Two-Spirit gender identity: their leader, Veronica Blackhawk, who uses they/she pronouns, is both.

Blackhawk has described Tinge's themes as encompassing "mental health and identity" — and if you zoom out, their "experience as a young Indigenous person navigating and healing through intergenerational trauma."

Back in the spring of 2023, the indie rock trio released their debut EP, Big Deep Sigh. Blackhawk characterized its songs,  as "accumulated over years of quiet bedroom writing [where it felt like holding in a deep breath for far too long.

"I exhaled," she continued, "and out came the biggest, deepest sigh I had ever released." And that comes through not only in Blackhawk's unvarnished lyricism, but in the dynamism of the band.

Side Montero

Yazzie calls the Albuquerque-based, Indigenous-led four-piece Side Montero "a band with Native members, but not necessarily a 'Native band'."

Which does not undermine two of its members' Navajo identity one whit, but underscores how some Indigenous artists choose not to make their heritage the focal point.

"They're not super forthright about the Native members' identity. They just [have two] guys who happen to be Native, and they kind of pride themselves on that a little bit, I think," Yazzie opines. "They acknowledge who they are without being over the top about it."

Which leaves the music, which iswhat Side Montero are all about, and their sound represents a fresh spin on well-trod indie and alternative rock territory.

Together, incisive vocals from singer/guitarist Aaron Lee, curlicuing lead guitar from Jaren Robledo, and a walloping rhythm section in bassist Ben Work and drummer Levi Maes make Side Montero a band to watch out for — Indigenous commentary or none.

Sage Cornelius

A heavy metal fiddler? You read that right. Billed as "the most metal fiddle player you know," Sage Haskelchi'i Cornelius is a monster on this unconventional vehicle for riffs and rage.

"He went to school, got a business degree, and just couldn't give up his fiddle," Yazzie says of Cornelius, who has Navajo, Oneida, Potawatomi, and Kickapoo roots. "So, at some point, he made the turn into fiddling full time."

Although Cornelius' YouTube channel features him sawing through headbanging originals, like "Entombed," and covers, like Metallica's "To Live is to Die," Cornelius inhabits all sorts of genres; he just finished a tour with singer/songwriter Shawn James, for instance.

"He always blows people away," Yazzie says admiringly of Cornelius. And like everyone else on this list, his music speaks loud and clear: he, nor any other Indigenous creators, defies compartmentalization or easy assessment.

America Has Birthed A Wealth Of Musical Forms. These Indigenous Artists Want To Know Where They Fit Into Them.

A festival promoter told Delbert Anderson he didn't present as Indigenous enough. The trumpeter and his group, DDAT, showed up to the State Fair of Texas in what he calls "the Native American section" — filled with dancers in traditional garb, among other signifiers. DDAT, for their part, donned suits. 

"They immediately assumed that we had some type of traditional feather show," Anderson, who is of Diné and Navajo descent, tells GRAMMY.com. "They probably thought we were going to show up in regalia or something."

The promoter asked Anderson whether or not DDAT played traditional music. "No, we don't," he responded. "But there are a lot of melodies that are inspired from that." The promoter didn't comprehend this — so much so that she went up to Anderson mid-set and shoved a turquoise necklace around his neck. 

Anderson was shocked. "I kind of stopped and said, 'Excuse me,'" he recalls. "And she just sort of said, 'You don't look Native enough.'"

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Read More: Meet Delbert Anderson, A Native American Trumpet Master Interweaving Navajo Melodies With Jazz

Ever good-humored, Anderson brushed off the harassment and tossed the necklace around his white bass player's neck. Still, he can't get the incident out of his head. "That's one of the first times anything like that has happened to me," he says. "They expect that kind of back-to-the-roots, traditional type of music from anyone who uses the words 'Native,' 'Indigenous' or 'tribal.'"

He's not alone: Many musicians of Indigenous ancestry in his circle — and outside of it — have felt the micro- and macroaggressions come fast and hard. And othering those who identify and market themselves as Indigenous isn't exclusive to jazz.

Even though Indigenous peoples have been here longer than anyone, they face tension, discomfort and/or unadulterated racism in a slew of genres understood to be American — from country to blues to gospel to hip-hop.

This is despite the fact that all these genres have deep Indigenous roots. Jazz household names Charlie Parker and Thelonious Monk had Native American ancestry. Same with blues musicians like Howlin' Wolf, Charley Patton and Martha Redbone. In classic rock, you've got Jimi Hendrix and Robbie Robertson. The list goes on.

Renata Yazzie. Photo: Darklisted Photography​

Despite this, Diné classical pianist Renata Yazzie says moving through her world is a "scabrous" experience. "The greatest difficulty is not only teaching ignorant people, but willfully ignorant people who refuse to recognize how the elitism of classical music has affected historically underrepresented groups," she tells GRAMMY.com.

Why do musicians who identify as Indigenous, like Anderson, Yazzie, Mali Obomsawin, Adrian Wall, JJ Otero, James Pakootas, Julia Keefe, Warren Realrider and Raven Chacon — all of whom spoke to GRAMMY.com for this story — experience such tension, both from within their communities and in the wider world?

The answers are manifold, varying wildly between artists and their tribal affiliations. Here are some of the ways that artists of Indigenous descent have experienced unease in the American music landscape — and how they overcame it.

Howlin' Wolf. Photo: Gilles Petard/Redferns​ via Getty Images

Considering The Course Of History

Since time immemorial, Indigenous peoples have developed an impossibly broad array of musical traditions. And with the arrival — or invasion, depending on who you ask — of European settlers came trade, fighting over boundaries and the introduction of European instruments.

At mission schools, Europeans taught Native Americans to compose on European instruments. This led to students composing Indigenous usic with those tools and methods. Works like 1845's Indian Melodies featured traditional Native tunes composed with European notation.

In the back-half of the 19th century, the primordial stew of Black American music was percolating — the one that would give the world jazz, blues and other idioms. And the pervasive invisibility felt by Indigenous peoples meant they had a point of commiseration with Black musical communities.

"Black and Indigenous people have been in community with each other since the beginning, since Black Africans were forcibly brought here for slavery," jazz bassist Mali Obomsawin, who is affiliated with the Odanak Abenaki First Nation tribe, tells GRAMMY.com. "I think people tend to forget that many of the founding blues and jazz artists were both Black and Native."

This confluence of heritages and traditions has been obscured by what Obomsawin calls a larger obfuscation of Indigenous identity — coupled with anti-Blackness. "If someone like Thelonious Monk, who was Tuscarora, was to be like, 'I'm Native American,' everyone would be like, 'No, you're Black,'" Obomsawin says.

"It was not desirable for Natives to be higher in numbers, whereas it was desirable for Black folks to be higher in numbers because they were considered property," she continues. "That means that slave owners and human traffickers had more property value. Whereas the more people that were Native, the more people the government was accountable to."

Mildred Bailey. Photo: Bettmann/Contributor via Getty Images

Julia Keefe, a jazz vocalist and enrolled member of the Nez Perce tribe, is acutely aware of the crossroads of Blackness and Indigenousness in early American music.

"There is a historical precedent for Native Americans in jazz," she tells GRAMMY.com, citing Indigenous people who learned European music in boarding and residential schools. "Around the same time that jazz was taking off in the '20s and '30s, there is evidence of Native people forming their own big bands."

One lesser-known early Indigenous jazz musician was Mildred Bailey, a singer of Native descent from the Coeur d'Alene tribe.

"She was the first one to sing in front of a big band," Keefe notes. "You think about all the female vocalists — Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday, Sarah Vaughan — who got their start singing in front of big band, and it was because there was such an appetite for that sound by Mildred Bailey singing in front of the Paul Whiteman Orchestra."

Oscar Pettiford. Photo: Michael Ochs Archives via Getty Images

But Bailey is just the tip of the iceberg in this regard. Besides Parker and Monk, there's a lengthy list of jazz artists of Indigenous descent — including saxophonist Jim Pepper, bassist Oscar Pettiford and trumpeter and multi-instrumentalist Don Cherry.

And jazz is but one piece of the puzzle: Indigenous artists can be found in all genres. But at times, proudly broadcasting their heritage in these spaces has proved difficult in the face of divisive politics.

Navigating Political Divides

While Anderson can only speak for his local scene near Farmington, New Mexico, he has a clear vantage on what it's like to market oneself as a Native American musician.

"I think as time progressed from the '80s until now, there were a lot of stronger Indigenous voices that came out," he says, citing activist causes like the American Indian Movement. "The moment you try to take any stand for Native American something, people tend to take those words as 'You're a hardcore activist.'"

"I mean, I could go outside right now and say, 'I stand with Standing Rock,'" he adds. "Immediately, people are going to think of me as a negative force here."

And while that scene comprised a healthy variety of perspectives and genres, it attracted judgement from the outside. "I think a lot of the people who were involved didn't really realize what they were creating," Anderson says. "It really looked like they were making some type of coalition — or Indigenous organization — that's going to fight everything that goes in their path."

Delbert Anderson. Photo: Maurice Johnson

This atmosphere weighed heavily on Anderson's career in 2013, when DDAT began to market themselves as "Native American jazz." (James Pakootas, their MC, is Indigenous; bassist Michael McCluhan is white; drummer Nicholas Lucero is Hispanic.)

"We immediately got thrown into this pool of musicians that were stirring up this big group or organization," Anderson says. "The moment we said 'We are Native American jazz,' they immediately assumed we're part of this Native American music scene, and it lost us gigs because they thought we were there to lecture the audience."

Anderson saw his more militant colleagues as refusing to compromise, acting as if rules didn't apply to them. "There's a lot of that showing up in musicians today," he says. "The moment a venue says something that they can't do, like, 'Oh, you can't burn cedar here before the show,' or anything like that, they'll throw a huge, huge fit."

"I hate to say it," Anderson says, "but it kind of ruined it for the rest of us who don't participate in that ceremony."

To avoid these associations, DDAT eventually decided to pivot away from "Native American jazz," describing themselves as a funk/jazz group inspired by Indigenous melodies. "People started to see us as not being activists, or the rowdy ones," Anderson says. As a result, the group immediately started getting offered more gigs.

Julia Keefe. Photo: Don Hamilton

Braving Inner Conflict

This dissonance isn't limited to sociopolitical factions, or a conflict between musicians and promoters — although Anderson could certainly share other horror stories. Even so-called enlightened spaces, like jazz workshops, have left Indigenous musicians second-guessing themselves.

"At gigs or at workshops or what have you, people will come up and be kind of aggressive about it — almost offended," Keefe says. "Like, [Flustered voice] 'What does that mean? What do you mean you are a Native American jazz vocalist?' 'Well, I'm Native American and I sing jazz. That's what I do.'"

"With that confrontation of my identity," she adds, "there's been tension within myself of, 'If I'm going to claim my Native heritage on my business card, should my music be more influenced by my Indigenous heritage?'"

But even if an artist defines what Indigenousness means for themselves, it's bound to create friction with others' preconceptions or stereotypes. "That's something that Natives come up against in any sort of art form," Obomsawin says.

Adrian Wall. Photo: Shondinii Walters​

Adrian Wall, a flutist and guitarist with roots in the Jemez Pueblo tribe, experiences dislocation just by announcing who he is to the world.

"Once you play the Native card, you're kind of stuck being a Native musician when you're actually playing music that's accepted worldwide just as American music," he tells GRAMMY.com. "Once you call yourself a Native, all of a sudden you're playing Native music."

Raven Chacon, a Diné composer who works in the experimental and noise scenes, has had to push against assumptions that his work would be stereotypically Native — or adjacent to new age. 

"There was an assumption it was going to involve flutes or drums or something," he tells GRAMMY.com with a laugh. "Even from people should know better, there have been assumptions."

Raven Chacon. Photo: Jamie Drummond

To fellow experimental musician and sound sculpturist Warren Realrider — who is Pawnee and enrolled with the Crow Nation of Montana and makes music akin to John Zorn, Pauline Oliveros and Merzbow — the solution lies in creating a music industry framework that accurately represents Indigenous creators.

"These systems of music, distribution, performance, whatever — they are built on a world that's not the Indigenous world," he tells GRAMMY.com. "You're always going to have to work against that in some way."

Plus, as a representative of his background in the insular noise space, Realrider's work has become bigger than him — he feels inordinate pressure to not let his tribe down.

"A lot of Indigenous artists don't lose that aspect," he says, considering the arc of his life and career so far. "That's something you carry along with you, and you present yourself that way."

Addressing Language Barriers

Sometimes, the criticism comes from within Indigenous communities themselves. JJ Otero, a Hopi and Diné singer/songwriter inspired by bands like Counting Crows and Pearl Jam, had to deal with the finer points of language — even one he knew backward and forward.

"I didn't use the Navajo language in my music for the longest time," he tells GRAMMY.com from his home on a Navajo reservation. "The white guys in [my first band, Saving Damsels] said, 'You should write a song in Navajo that we can play.'"

JJ Otero. Photo: Unek Francis

Despite being a fluent Navajo speaker, Otero wanted to be careful that he said things exactly right. "I don't want my songs to just be a lazy utterance of words in Navajo," he says. To thread the needle, Otero enlisted his father to vet his lyrics for inexact grammar and syntax.

"I do believe that sometimes our own people can be our toughest critics," Otero says. "We can take that criticism and be mad and upset about it, or we can dive deeper into why those criticisms exist and understand the foundation of why Navajo is sacred."

Facing One's Own Community

As a rapper and motivational speaker who spits bars in DDAT, James Pakootas operates by what he calls "a very deep awareness of protocol."

"A lot of times, Native artists in contemporary music want to meld the two worlds, but it seems like sometimes they're taking away from the culture. It's not done with care," Pakootas tells GRAMMY.com. "It's like sampling a powwow song, putting it on a hip-hop beat and calling it good."

James Pakootas. Photo: Maurice Johnson

To avoid this sort of mishandling, Pakootas works with collaborators to tell his stories as considerately as possible, preferring to bring in a drum group and analyze together how the story could be told.

"A lot of songs I know are ceremony songs," he adds. "There's not going to be any of those that I share because there's a protocol in place to keep that sacred. There's a time and a place for that song to be sung or that melody to be used."

Reaching Harmony From Dissonance

How can music fans right these wrongs and push against the othering of Indigenous artists? Maybe the first step is realizing that Indigenous music is all music.

"Native people are very much seen as mythological creatures, as the villains in Westerns, the mascots that you love to hate, or whatever," Keefe says. "So, I can see why [musical discrimination] would be a thing because so often we are perceived as a figment of someone's imagination."

Warren Realrider. Photo: Shane Brown​

For Obomsawin, this necessary shift begins with education — and by listening to the stories of her elders. In her case, that teacher is Pura Fé, a Tuscarora and Taino vocalist and activist related to Thelonious Monk.

"She is so intimately aware of those dual legacies — the Black and Native lineages of jazz," Obomsawin says. "I just hope that more air time is given to the elders in the jazz and blues community who know those things. I think it could really help to unearth some of those stories as really important parts of American music history — as well as our history in general."

Mali Obomsawin. Photo: Nolan Altvater​

As for Yazzie, she believes significant change won't occur until we give sovereignty to Indigenous artists — so they can decide who their audience is, why they perform their music, what their music sounds like, where they want their music played, and how they want it to be perceived by the rest of the world.

"I always maintain that Native music is Native music because a Native person is outputting it," Yazzie says. "But on the flipside, you don't want to limit people to where all they do is Native music. I think you have to be really careful to not use the Native music label as a way to put people in a specific box. Because Native music is still also blues. It's still jazz. It's still country. It's still hip-hop. It's still classical music. [Indigenous] people are in those genre-specific spaces and they're doing amazing things."

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When considering this subject, Anderson always returns to Don Cherry, who remains one of his idols. "In one of his interviews, he said, 'Hey, it's about meeting other people. It's about having relationships with your friends,'" he says.

"I think everyone just needs to go back to their original state, going back to just being a human and recognizing that we're all humans here," Anderson adds. "Approach each other as human beings with our minds or our thoughts."

Anderson is bringing Cherry's openhearted philosophy to his next endeavor — collaborating with the American Pops Orchestra for a Bureau of Land Management project. This has been a laborious process, with no shortage of fine lines to navigate.

"Bringing this orchestra onto the Indigenous lands is going to be a real struggle because of all the racial division going on in the world," he says. But in the end, Anderson believes all the work is going to be worth it.

"Having these two different identities on that land, I'm hoping the land can really heal the group that's there," he says. "I mean, if the land really heals, we're going to put the land to the test." 

Because it's happened before on this soil: Indigenous people and those of so many other backgrounds have come together to make great American music. Sure, it's been a rocky path to get there — sometimes a troubling and treacherous one. But Anderson and his colleagues aren't afraid to tread it.

Commonalities, Subtleties & Purpose: 7 Musicians Pushing Ancient Asian Instruments Into The Future

When Code Orange's Jami Morgan came to work with Steve Albini, he knew that he and the band had to be prepared. They knew what they wanted to do, in which order, and "it went as good as any process we've ever had — probably the best," he glowed.

And a big part of that was that Albini —  a legendary musician and creator of now-iconic indie, punk and alternative records —  didn't consider himself any sort of impresario. 

"The man wears a garbage man suit to work every day," Morgan previously told GRAMMY.com while promoting Code Orange's The Above. "It reminds him he's doing a trade… I f—ing loved him. I thought he was the greatest guy."

The masterful The Above was released in 2023, decades into Albini's astonishing legacy both onstage and in the studio. The twisted mastermind behind Big Black and Shellac, and man behind the board for innumerable off-center classics, Steve Albini passed away on the evening of May 7 following a heart attack suffered at his Chicago recording studio, the hallowed Electrical Audio. He was 61. The first Shellac album since 2014, To All Trains, is due May 17.

Albini stuck to his stubborn principles (especially in regard to the music industry), inimitable aesthetics and workaday self-perception until the end. Tributes highlighting his ethos, attitude and vision have been flowing in from all corners of the indie community. The revered label Secretly Canadian called Albini "a wizard who would hate being called a wizard, but who surely made magic."

David Grubbs of Gastr Del Sol called him "a brilliant, infinitely generous person, absolutely one-of-a-kind, and so inspiring to see him change over time and own up to things he outgrew" — meaning old, provocative statements and lyrics.

And mononymous bassist Stin of the bludgeoning noise rock band Chat Pile declared, "No singular artist's body of work has had an impact on me more than that of Steve Albini."

To wade through Albini's entire legacy, and discography, would take a lifetime — and happy hunting, as so much great indie, noise rock, punk, and so much more passed across his desk. Here are five of those albums.

Pixies - Surfer Rosa (1988)

Your mileage may vary on who lit the match for the alternative boom, but Pixies — and their debut Surfer Rosa — deserve a place in that debate. This quicksilver classic introduced us to a lot of Steve Albini's touchstones: capacious miking techniques; unadulterated, audio verite takes; serrated noise.

PJ Harvey - Rid of Me (1993)

Some of Albini's finest hours have resulted from carefully arranging the room, hitting record, and letting an artist stalk the studio like a caged animal.

It happened on Scout Niblett's This Fool Can Die Now; it happened on Laura Jane Grace's Stay Alive; and it most certainly happened on PJ Harvey's Rid of Me, which can be seen as a precedent for both. Let tunes like "Man-Size" take a shot at you; that scar won't heal anytime soon.

Nirvana - In Utero (1993)

Nirvana's unintended swan song in the studio was meant to burn the polished Nevermind in effigy.

And while Kurt Cobain was too much of a pop beautician to fully do that, In Utero is still one of the most bracing and unvarnished mainstream rock albums ever made. Dave Grohl's drum sound on "Scentless Apprentice" alone is a shot to your solar plexus.

"The thing that I was really charmed most by in the whole process was just hearing how good a job the band had done the first time around," Albini told GRAMMY.com upon In Utero's 20th anniversary remix and remastering. "What struck me the most about the [remastering and reissue] process was the fact that everybody was willing to go the full nine yards for quality."

Songs: Ohia - The Magnolia Electric Co. (2003)

When almost a dozen musicians packed into Electrical Audio to make The Magnolia Electric Co., the vibe was, well, electric — prolific singer/songwriter Jason Molina was on the verge of something earth-shaking.

It's up for debate as to whether the album they made was the final Songs: Ohia record, or the first by his following project, Magnolia Electric Co. — is a tempestuous, majestic, symbolism-heavy, Crazy Horse-scaled ride through Molina's troubled psyche.

Code Orange - The Above (2023)

A health issue kept Code Orange from touring behind The Above, which is a shame for many reasons. One is that they're a world-class live band. The other is that The Above consists of their most detailed and accomplished material to date.

The band's frontman Morgan and keyboardist Eric "Shade" Balderose produced The Above, which combines hardcore, metalcore and industrial rock with concision and vision. And by capturing their onstage fire like never before on record, Albini helped glue it all together.

"It was a match made in heaven," Morgan said. And Albini made ferocity, ugliness and transgression seem heavenly all the same.

11 Reasons Why 1993 Was Nirvana's Big Year

What is about the Beatles' Let it Be sessions that continues to bedevil diehards?

Even after their aperture was tremendously widened with Get Back — Peter Jackson's three-part, almost eight hour, 2021 doc — something's always been missing. Because it was meant as a corrective to a film that, well, most of us haven't seen in a long time — if at all.

That's Let it Be, the original 1970 documentary on those contested, pivotal, hot-and-cold sessions, directed by Michael Lindsay-Hogg. Much of the calcified lore around the Beatles' last stand comes not from the film itself, but what we think is in the film.

Let it Be does contain a couple of emotionally charged moments between maturing Beatles. The most famous one: George Harrison getting snippy with Paul McCartney over a guitar part, which might just be the most blown-out-of-proportion squabble in rock history.

But superfans smelled blood in the water: the film had to be a locus for the Beatles' untimely demise. To which the film's director, Michael Lindsay-Hogg, might say: did we see the same movie?

"Looking back from history's vantage point, it seems like everybody drank the bad batch of Kool-Aid," he tells GRAMMY.com. Lindsay-Hogg had just appeared at an NYC screening, and seemed as surprised by it as the fans: "Because the opinion that was first formed about the movie, you could not form on the actual movie we saw the other night."

He's correct. If you saw Get Back, Lindsay-Hogg is the babyfaced, cigar-puffing auteur seen throughout; today, at 84, his original vision has been reclaimed. On May 8, Disney+ unveiled a restored and refreshed version of the Let it Be film — a historical counterweight to Get Back. Temperamentally, though, it's right on the same wavelength, which is bound to surprise some Fabs disciples.

With the benefit of Peter Jackson's sound-polishing magic and Giles Martin's inspired remixes of performances, Let it Be offers a quieter, more muted, more atmospheric take on these sessions. (Think fewer goofy antics, and more tight, lingering shots of four of rock's most evocative faces.)

As you absorb the long-on-ice Let it Be, here are some lesser-known facts about this film, and the era of the Beatles it captures — with a little help from Lindsay-Hogg himself.

The Beatles Were Happy With The Let It Be Film

After Lindsay-Hogg showed the Beatles the final rough cut, he says they all went out to a jovial meal and drinks: "Nice food, collegial, pleasant, witty conversation, nice wine."

Afterward, they went downstairs to a discotheque for nightcaps. "Paul said he thought Let it Be was good. We'd all done a good job," Lindsay-Hogg remembers. "And Ringo and [wife] Maureen were jiving to the music until two in the morning."

"They had a really, really good time," he adds. "And you can see like [in the film], on their faces, their interactions — it was like it always was."

About "That" Fight: Neither Paul Nor George Made A Big Deal

At this point, Beatles fanatics can recite this Harrison-in-a-snit quote to McCartney: "I'll play, you know, whatever you want me to play, or I won't play at all if you don't want me to play. Whatever it is that will please you… I'll do it." (Yes, that's widely viewed among fans as a tremendous deal.)

If this was such a fissure, why did McCartney and Harrison allow it in the film? After all, they had say in the final cut, like the other Beatles.

"Nothing was going to be in the picture that they didn't want," Lindsay-Hogg asserts. "They never commented on that. They took that exchange as like many other exchanges they'd had over the years… but, of course, since they'd broken up a month before [the film's release], everyone was looking for little bits of sharp metal on the sand to think why they'd broken up."

About Ringo's "Not A Lot Of Joy" Comment…

Recently, Ringo Starr opined that there was "not a lot of joy" in the Let it Be film; Lindsay-Hogg says Starr framed it to him as "no joy."

Of course, that's Starr's prerogative. But it's not quite borne out by what we see — especially that merry scene where he and Harrison work out an early draft of Abbey Road's "Octopus's Garden."

"And Ringo's a combination of so pleased to be working on the song, pleased to be working with his friend, glad for the input," Lindsay-Hogg says. "He's a wonderful guy. I mean, he can think what he wants and I will always have greater affection for him.

"Let's see if he changes his mind by the time he's 100," he added mirthfully.

Lindsay-Hogg Thought It'd Never Be Released Again

"I went through many years of thinking, It's not going to come out," Lindsay-Hogg says. In this regard, he characterizes 25 or 30 years of his life as "solitary confinement," although he was "pushing for it, and educating for it."

"Then, suddenly, the sun comes out" — which may be thanks to Peter Jackson, and renewed interest via Get Back. "And someone opens the cell door, and Let it Be walks out."

Nobody Asked Him What The Sessions Were Like

All four Beatles, and many of their associates, have spoken their piece on Let it Be sessions — and journalists, authors, documentarians, and fans all have their own slant on them.

But what was this time like from Lindsay-Hogg's perspective? Incredibly, nobody ever thought to check. "You asked the one question which no one has asked," he says. "No one."

So, give us the vibe check. Were the Let it Be sessions ever remotely as tense as they've been described, since man landed on the moon? And to that, Lindsay-Hogg's response is a chuckle, and a resounding, "No, no, no."

The Beatles' Final Song: Giles Martin On The Second Life Of "Now And Then" & How The Fab Four Are "Still Breaking New Ground"

Yaya Bey possesses a dizzying talent: The ability to draw everything from reggae to house music into her sonic worldview without it ever feeling anything but inventive.

On her innovative upcoming record Ten Fold, the Brooklyn-based artist tethers her R&B sound to pangs of hip-hop, pop, and soul. She's also attuned to the sound and vibration of her city, a reference point shown as early as her 2016 debut, The Many Alter-Egos of Trill’eta Brown.

Whether on record or in conversation, Bey carries that classic native New Yorker duality: She’s well aware that the city’s constantly evolving energy means that no one perspective could possibly speak for it, but she also knows when it needs her to speak up. 

"People who are born and raised here are like unicorns," the experimental R&B/pop artist says — herself having grown up in Queens, the daughter of Grand Daddy I.U., a member of the legendary hip-hop collective the Juice Crew. So when mayor Eric Adams was at an event while raging Canadian wildfires dyed the city orange and covered it in smoke, she put her thoughts to record with the track, "eric adams in the club." 

That fiery critique is only one of the powerful emotions that fueled Ten Fold; the passing of her father (rapper Grand Daddy I.U.) adds a tragic shade, and her new marriage brings a flash of joy, among other prismatics. While 2022’s grand Remember Your North Star were built on thematic cohesion, Ten Fold’s 16 tracks are cathartic  in their ability to bound between extremes and find life’s most powerful moments. "I was experiencing success and grief at the same time, and that set the tone," Bey says of creating the new album.

While she’s continued experimenting as a visual artist and poet, Bey's work as an activist — including time as a street medic at protests — demonstrates the real-world ties to all of that expressive work. "It made me really focus on my responsibility to my neighbor and how I exist in the world, loving and caring not just about myself, but about the collective struggle," she says.

Bey spoke with GRAMMY.com about finding the creative energy to manage all of those practices, weaving her father’s voice into Ten Fold, and the state of music played at New York cookouts.

I need to thank you for "Sir Princess Bad Bitch" because it will never stop repeating in my head! It’s such an incredible track. Did you know you'd hit it out of the park when you were in the studio?

Well, Corey Fonville, who's the drummer in [jazz quintet] Butcher Brown, produced the track and he sent it to me. And I was like, "Wow, I'm about to do a house record?" 

I'd done dance records before, but this one felt different. The words and the melody, it came so easily that it felt right. That's usually how I gauge if something is the right song for me, if the melody and the words come quick. I have that kind of chemistry with Corey. 

If the lyrics and the melody meet in the way this album does, pushing inclusive, all-encompassing empowerment, that must feel so encouraging as an artist. 

You know, when I was making this album, my dad passed away in December of ‘22. And that happened, like, right as I put out another album called North Star. 

That album sort of shifted me into a space where [I was] making a living off of my art, and people are interested in me, and I got a publishing deal, and I went to Europe to play some gigs for the first time in about November. I stayed for a month and I came home and my dad died. 

Right when that happened, I was presented with the option to renew my record deal and put another album out. So I started working on it almost immediately after he died. I went through 2023 making the album and I had to find light. So I put in a lot of songs just trying to encourage myself.  

I’m so sorry. My heart breaks for you. I lost my dad in 2021, right before I started a massive project, and it shifted my process completely. Is that why the album starts with "crying through my teeth."? You’re expressing your grief before anything else.

Yeah. I usually start my other projects with a little rap. But I knew that this project was different and I needed to start it out setting the tone. We're starting out in a dark place and then we try to journey out of it.

 And then you incorporated your father's voice in the intro to some of the songs, like on "east coast mami." How did it come to you to bring his memory into the album? 

To be honest, especially during this process, I’ve just been trying to keep whatever I can from him. One day, I was trying to find voice notes from him. My phone had deleted all of our text messages and thank God I had some screenshots of it. I was looking for what I had left, and I had these voice notes.

It’s difficult enough to determine what message you want to convey with any album, but then having this grief, this audible connection to your dad, must have been a lot to consider.

Yeah. The album is also about more than the grief. My albums are more thematic; this album isn't thematic as much as it was just my life turned upside down. My dad was my best friend. And at the same time, my dad was also a musician and I followed in his footsteps. But in the blink of an eye, I was living a completely different life.

My life changed overnight when I made North Star. I was three months behind on my rent, and in the blink of an eye I had money to pay my rent for the year if I wanted. I had got all these things that I thought I was going to share with my dad. I got married. My whole life just shifted. And so the album is like, documenting that. I had no control. I just had to go with the ebbs and flows of life and make songs as I went along.

Both the good and bad, how do you think all that change affected your actual music? Even just in your quality of life, being exposed to different things. 

I think it gave me more perspective, for sure. I've seen more of the world, I've experienced new things. I can write from a place of joy, too. I made [North Star] in despair, and I'm not in despair anymore. You have more things to write about when you’re not three months behind on rent, not in a relationship with some guy that's driving you crazy. 

Between your music, poetry, visual art, mutual aid work, you're outputting so much creative and connected energy into the world. Were you ever wary of not being able to tackle those things, especially while going through multiple different shifts in your life? 

To be honest, I was afraid that I wouldn't be able to make an album again. I did have those thoughts. But I find that if I just show up, like, I'm going to just tell what's true for me, I'll probably be fine. And it's still working out in that way.

It's still cathartic. It’s still just trying to feel something, express something, even with the dance records, just trying to tap into something that feels good. 

Speaking of those dance records, were there any particular artists you were channeling when developing your take on that sound? 

Phyllis Hyman and Frankie Beverly are really big inspirations for me. Growing up in New York, when you go to cookouts, Black people, they play Frankie Beverly, they play Alicia Myers, they play Phyllis Hyman. It's a certain sound that you're gonna hear at a cookout. I just grew up with the sound. Phyllis Hyman is iconic.

I think that dance music has a long history in that debate about art produced in troubled times. Speaking of, we’ve got to talk about "eric adams in the club", which is a phrase I never thought I'd get to say in an interview. Did you go into the writing process wanting to write about Eric Adams to a dance beat, or was that more serendipitous in the studio? 

Last June there was a wildfire in Canada, and it impacted the air quality in New York. He was in the club with Robert De Niro. And I remember thinking to myself, like, Yo, this is insane. Being a New Yorker, seeing how much people's rent raised when they decided it wasn't a pandemic anymore, in a matter of months — it sent the city into a housing crisis, and he refused to address it. And then that wildfire thing happened, and I was like, Oh, yeah, I'm gonna write a song about this guy, but I want it to be a club record because he's in the club. 

New York is an interesting city. It doesn't care about its natives, in a way that is unique. Gentrification happens everywhere, but the way that it happens in a city like New York is that people who are born and raised here are like unicorns. And there are a lot of things that happen that we don't have a voice on. 

I've also been grieving the city that I grew up in, that it doesn't even exist anymore because of people like Eric Adams. The city is more than just the restaurants and things like that. It's the people and the people that create the culture. And if that's pushed out, it's not even what it was anymore, it's something new. 

Obviously there's so many things that need to change, but by being a musician and being an artist, how do you feel like you can shift some mindsets? 

I think I can have the conversations or make the music that starts conversations. I was listening to a lot of Frankie Beverly and Maze when the pandemic was at its height, and [that was] focused on unity a lot. If you listen to, like, "We Are One," "Happy Feelin’s," their message is love, their message is unity. And it got me through the pandemic. I couldn't stop listening to it. 

It made me really focus on my responsibility to my neighbor and how I exist in the world, loving and caring not just about myself, but about the collective struggle. And they did it in such a beautiful way that I kept coming back to listen to the music again and again and again.

Empress Of Is Here 'For Your Consideration': How Heartbreak, Horniness & Self-Acceptance Led To An Actualized Album