Meshell Ndegeocello turns familiar songs inside out

This is Fresh Air. I'm Tanya Mosley. My guest today is Michelle Indigiocello, and you might recognize her vocals and bass from this song. That's Michelle Indigiocello with John Mellencamp covering Van Morrison's Wild Night in 1994. By then, Indigiocello was already making a name for herself. With music that defied easy categorization, her songs could ache with romantic longing while celebrating Black beauty and sensuality and the freedom to define yourself. She once described them as broken-hearted, revolutionary love songs. Over three decades, she's moved between funk, soul, jazz, and rock, composed music for television, including Ava DuVernay's Queen Sugar, and created an acclaimed musical tribute to James Baldwin. Now on her new album. Indigiocello reimagines familiar duets with an eclectic group of artists, from Chaka Khan to Brandi Carlile, creating arrangements that challenge how we hear songs we thought we knew. Like this version of the Human League's 1981 hit, Don't You Want Me, which she records with cat power. Don't you want me? You know I can't believe it when you say that you don't need me. It's much too late to find You think you've changed your mind You better change it back We're both the same We're both the same Don't you want me, baby Don't you want me Michelle Indigiocello, welcome to Fresh Air. Oh, wow. Thanks for having me. It's such a pleasure. What a groove that song is. And you know, I was thinking. As I've been listening to it, that the original version by the Human League, it always sounded to me like a plea to be wanted. And in this version with cat power, nobody is begging. It is such a groovy kind of island-like feel. What did you hear in the original that you wanted to bring out? Oh, I thought it was this anthem at the time when I first heard it. Just such vulnerability. Yet the so-called man in the song is also saying, you know, I made you. And how can you leave me? So it's kind of cheeky and weird in a way. And I think that baseline just speaks for itself. And production-wise, we just. I don't know. I think Lee Scratch Perry's Ghost came in and was like, do it like this. And you've said cat power during the recording of this kind of taught you something about using your own voice rather than imitating the original. What were you doing differently as a vocalist because of her? Oh, like I had made a scratch vocal and I kind of really stuck to the melody. And she totally deconstructed it and heard it how she felt it in her body and mind. And it just made me. Once I got her track back, approached it in a totally different way. And I think that's when we also re-envisioned the drums. It's like, yeah, cat and the ghost of other feelings came in. And I had to remember that's what I enjoy about music. It's unifying. You can get five people in a room and they're unified through one song. Or you have this great composition, an outline. And now it's time for me to create a different palette and paint it differently. And so she's a great song stylist. And I know we have these differentiations and genres. But to me, she's like a jazz singer. She took a standard and made it her own. And that really opened me up. What is so interesting, I mean, about this album is. You're really taking us in a different space to think about things outside of the particular voices and relationships with songs that we typically have, especially these classic ones. And the next song I want to play is one that I think almost everybody knows. It's Sonny and Cher's I Got You, Babe, which was originally written by Sonny. He composed the song for himself and Cher in 1965. That original version, there's something so sweet and almost defiant. There's something so sweet and almost defiant. There's something so brilliant about the original. It's like two people who are insisting that they have each other, and that's enough. I want to play your arrangement with British singer-songwriter Anoni. Let's listen. We don't have a pot, but at least I'm sure of all the things we've got. I'm sure, baby. Baby. I got you, baby. I got you, baby. I got flowers in the spring. I got you to wear my ring. When I'm saying you're such a clown. And I get scared when you're not around. Oh, my gosh. Can I just say, I mean, I just, I love this version. It makes me just want to run and twirl and like, I just, it's such a beautiful arrangement. I just want to tell you that first off, give you your flowers with that. Well, I want to share those flowers with Levon Henry, someone who's very. He's very, very important to me. And I just knew, like, our souls were aligned in a deep friendship through music. And I've watched him grow. But when I had an idea for the song, I sort of, I gave him my emotional wants and desires and hopes for the track. And he came back with that arrangement for "Horns." And I just want to talk about the importance of that. I just want to talk about the importance of an arranger. And that's what I really hope people notice on the record, is that I just want to show and highlight that that's what I love to do. And I come from, my dad played in the Army Blues, Pershing's own. He played Ford's Inauguration, Reagan's, and he played in their big band. And they would have guest arrangers to keep the music fresh. And so I learned that as a young child. Like, that. That person, you don't know their name, but they're very important to a project. You have also said Anoni challenged you as a singer, too. Yeah, definitely. What did she bring out in your voice that surprised you? You two together, it's so powerful. Yeah, again, I sung the song. I just sung the melody that was there. And then Anoni sent back her track. And it just was, like, humbling. Because she also wrote in the email, like, you need to do yours again. And you need to just kind of rethink some things. Or phrasing is. You know, she just had ideas and directions. And I have to say, like, when you get a certain place in your career, people make grand assumptions that you don't want to be told what to do or given ideas. And I love when people go, like, why don't you try this and do this? And it just really keeps my mind fresh and open. I get that. And I totally get, too. As you get further and further in your career, people are less likely to correct you. And it's such a disservice, because it doesn't help you grow as an artist. And from my understanding, it seems like that's what you're constantly on this journey of trying to grow. Oh, yeah. I realize sometimes I'm the elder. And sometimes I'm the youngest person in the room. And sometimes I'm right in the middle. And I realize we're all on this journey. And I realize we're all on this journey together. And we're all doing the best we can. And I'm really okay with what I don't know. And I think I've only gotten this far because I've been able to admit what I don't know. Your voice is so husky in this arrangement. And I've heard you say your voice has changed as you've gotten older. Has it changed what you can express as a singer? No, it's just a different color to paint with. So she. Reagan says, you know, as you age, you lose those falsetto points. So yeah, you lose, I've lost a lot of range. But I just, this is my natural voice and I'm a huge fan of Scott Walker. And so it's just a color I have. And plus I thought it was a nice contrast to Anoni. I try to use my voice in a way that communicates like, you know, in church you got call and response or sometimes vocals can be a grounding. And I'm just trying to really approach it that way as I'm trying to emit something to communicate a story and use my voice and storytelling to aid in that song's service. You know, many of these songs, they began as male-female duets and you've reimagined them with artists like Anoni. And you called the album an expression of queer liberation, but you have also said you hope gender is one of the last things that listeners notice. Oh, wow. You're really getting me on something that's been, you know, last week, Michelle Martin asked me about these tunes being sung by people of the same gender. And I told her it was the last thing a person should think about. And that's true in terms of the music. And I told her that I want people to hear the music and just feel the feelings it brings. But I realized afterwards what she was asking. And I think I was just nervous. I guess the climate we're in, I can't say I'm not affected. But yes, the songs here were intentionally reimagined with people who are same-gendered or similarly gendered or non-gendered in similar ways. And this album is not just about rearranging chords and rhythms, but also about queerness and self-expression, visibility, liberation. And like these songs are synonyms for their originals, that liberation is a synonym for the liberation of black and brown people, of immigrants, of women and Jewish people and Palestinian people and indigenous people. Because we might be very, very different, but we all live in these margins. And sharing the struggle for our rights and safety and dreams is extremely meaningful and powerful to me. You've said in particular that music is one of the rare times when you feel raceless and genderless. And I want to understand that experience. When you're completely inside the music, what changes and how you experience yourself? Oh, man. You know, I had a certain kind of upbringing, and the music was the only place I could find comfort, you know, or ease or camaraderie. Do you remember the first time you felt that? Oh, yeah, definitely. I mean, I played go-go music, and I would play like three nights a week with hundreds of people, you know, and you could see how they were affected by the music, the way they danced and interacted. And I knew I was a part of something that moved people or a catharsis or, you know, two hours of fun on the weekend. And for those who don't know, DC go-go is kind of like DC's homegrown answer to funk music. Yeah. And it's like, to me, it's punk. It's everything. I mean, it's like, it has so much of the diaspora in it, but at the same time, it's very uniquely black American music. It's solely unique. The drummer plays for like an hour and a half, rarely stopping for maybe a few bars or so. But it's kind of a steady tempo. You have to be able to grind to it or dance certain movements. It's also what helps me, I think, the arranger that I am, because you would take popular songs from the radio and you would make them fit into the go-go genre. Go-go music, you mentioned how like the crowd is with you. It's a back and forth. It's a call and response. And you're playing with other musicians. So it's a group of you creating the sound together. What do you remember feeling in that moment, though? Did you realize it kind of like as a freedom? Freedom at the time, or did you come to understand it that way later? Freedom. Yeah. I mean, I grew up in a very, like, a lot of religious dogma. What was your family? Oh, born-again Christians. Okay. Yeah. Baptist or Protestant? Yeah, Baptist. My mother's from Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, and my father is from Richmond, Virginia. And my grandparents, you know, from the South as well. I had all those biblical stories. And so I think music to me was all like, you know, not only something that brings you solace, it's a way to connect to the Creator. I just, I think I've always embodied that. And so, I mean, listening to music was the beginning. I could close my eyes and not be me. I could live in the music, if that makes sense. Um, my father practiced all the time. So I could watch somebody and listen to someone just play the same thing over and over again, like a raga or a mantra. And there's something powerful in that, in the breath. Um, I'm only, this is only hindsight, but like, um, I describe my life as a childhood upbringing of one of chaos and jubilation. You know, music. Yeah. Yeah. Music was trends, a transcendent force, especially with the chaos. Yeah. Your dad, you tell the stories about your dad was a saxophonist with an army band. And you've told these vivid stories in the past of, um, how the two of you would study arrangements by musicians like Duke Ellington and Count Basie and the different ways they could interpret a song. What did your father teach you? What do you remember about those times when you guys were kind of dissecting that music? Oh, yeah. Just, um, we would talk about tone. Um, we would talk about comping, like when a soloist is taking, having his moment of self-expression, you know, some people love when the accompanying person is coloring out every harmony and chord in the arrangement. Or some soloists like where you hint at it and it allows them to be a little freer in their self-expression. We would talk about that. He was also very harsh. He was like, you're the bass players. And I think it's the reason I play the way I do. He was like, you are the foundation of the music. You are not there to like have self-expression. You are the structure of the song. And that, oh, what does that mean? How does that change your relationship? To the entire arrangement when you are seen as that? Oh, that means I have to know the song. Like the drummer, as long as he's got some idea of the time and the feel, he can kind of play what he wants and kind of guide us rhythmically. I think the bass sets the foundation of the chord, but they can still have great freedom. But if I mess up, you feel, you can, when the bass, the parts, you can feel the groove and the song shift and change. Sometimes fall apart in a good way or a bad way. The falling apart could be good. The redirection could be what you want. But the bass player to me is the foundation of the song, of the arrangement. I'm keeping it flowing and moving. And that's how my father, because my father would play the NCO club and his bass player, something happened, he couldn't show up. I think I was only 16. And I just started playing recently. And he was like, you're going to do this gig tonight. He was like, you just got to know the time. And you got to know, you know, just see the chord at the top and stay with the changes and, you know, just stay solid. And that's how he taught me to work with him. Like, this is your part in the tribe. Was that your first time working together? And then he didn't call the other bass player for the next couple of shows. Um, yeah, definitely. Um, he was hard. And I, some of that stuff I look back on, I didn't like it. But then I'm so grateful because I'm seeing now, he was just trying to make me better. Our guest today is Grammy Award winning musician Michelle Indigiocello. You can keep up with Fresh Air by subscribing to our podcast on Apple or Spotify and leave us a review. It helps us a lot. More of my conversation with Michelle after a short break. I'm Tanya Mosley, and this is Fresh Air. newsletter. And I'm a newsletter fan. I read it every Saturday after breakfast. The newsletter includes all the week shows, staff recommendations, and Molly picks timely highlights from the archive. It's a fun read. It's also the only place where we tell you what's coming up next week, an exclusive. So subscribe at whyy.org slash fresh air and look for an email from Molly every Saturday morning. I want to actually play a little bit from the album No More Water, The Gospel of James Baldwin, which came out in 2024. And this song is called Love. Let's listen to a little bit. Love's a simple thing to make. You should know. That's Love from Michele Indeghiacello's album No More Water, The Gospel of James Baldwin. I want to talk a little bit about this James Baldwin tribute album. I don't even know if calling it a tribute album, is that a correct way to say it? No. Well, Jason Moran introduced me to the Harlem stage. And once a year, they dedicate the theater to projects based on the works of James Baldwin. And I chose The Fire Next Time. And that was in 2014. And I lived with that book for a year in my pocket, reading it over and over again. My mother had a fourth grade education. And was a domestic most of my life. And it's a different dynamic when you teach your mother how to read. And so taught your mom how to read. Yeah, I aided her and just trying to get better at it. And so as a child, yeah, as a child reading the Bible and, and my father would like, you know, in the army, you get the Reader's Digest and no books from Disney. So I mean, growing up, I definitely could recite, you know, sonnets from Shakespeare, I knew all the Disney stories, you know, I had Reader's Digest. And my father gave me National Geographic and Life magazine. So, you know, and he too was like, if you read life would be okay. He definitely made sure that that I could my brother not so much, but I could. So once I got Baldwin, I realized there are huge gaps in my education. And also, my father was like, a Republican, my father was quite conservative. There was no black power or any, you know, even though I watched him in the army, constantly be passed by his white counterparts in rank, knowing that he not only was the better musician, but had been there for over 26 years. What did it mean to be a Republican during that time period, a black, black Republican, I mean, yeah, he just, he espoused some views, and I only feel comfortable now, you know, I try not to disparage those who are not here to defend themselves. I just think he grew up in a certain way where it was like, he believed you, you know, pull yourself up by your own bootstraps. So I just, I can't say I won't speak for him. But he just was conservative fiscally. He believed in the American dream. And it was, you couldn't have conversations about systematic racism, even though he experienced it. My parents are both born in the 40s. How did you interpret that with him that he, you could see very clearly that he faced all of this in his own work in life, but he had these views at the same time, these contrasting views to what his real experience was? Oh, I think, as Baldwin illuminated for me, he has a part in the book, and I'm paraphrasing, forgive me, was stuck with me. He says, most of our men went off into the military to be ruined, I think is very close to the quote. And my father had a circumstance where he was given a choice. I don't think he wanted to be drafted. And so he joined voluntarily. And, but I think it changed my father's life. He went to Germany, had a really good life. And he was a very good father. I was born there. My brother's born there. Some tragedies happen, but my father, he was just like, I think what he experienced there made him come back and say, I got to make the best of this. Like my dad was a man's man in terms of his excesses of philandering and libations consuming. And him and my mother had a very intense relationship with one another. They both had secrets and traumas. Like I said, these are people of color born in the 40s. Civil rights is only as old as I am, as the child they had. When I was born, 1968, is when things changed in their life on a global scale. That's when I was born. And I think that's when I was born. And I think that's why I have such empathy and grace and humility to how I was brought up. Because I can't imagine my mother being the only Black person in a German hospital, giving birth to me, and then having a complication. And they give her a full hysterectomy before they knew you could leave the ovaries. So my mother basically went into menopause in her 20s. And so my mother was severely depressed. She also lost a child when that child was very young in Germany. That's one of their secrets. They would never talk about how. And my mother is mixed race. And it was clear that that child wasn't my father's. But I look at it now as like, who am I to even begin to judge them? Because again, I cannot imagine what my mother went through having a fourth grade education, hormonally imbalanced, dealing with grief. It's just complicated beyond my grasp. Also with religious dogma. And my mother didn't have her own checking account until 84. And I'm just looking back on those things. And at the same time, you're supposed to big up yourself, have pride, for your race, excel economically, try to make it better for the next generation. That's what I'll say. I think my father was like, he would always say, whatever you do, be the best at it. You know, I think he just wanted to, he knew like this life was singular, and he tried to make the best of it and find the joys he could. And I think my mother as well. But like I said, she just was having children myself. It hurts to know. But I then again, I'm like, I just can't imagine what she felt or went through. Our guest today is Grammy Award winning musician Michelle Ndegiacello. We'll be right back. I really love learning about early jobs that people had that I interview. And I read that through your dad's connections in the military, you actually worked in the military. And I read that you actually worked in the military. And I read that you actually worked in food services at the Pentagon for a minute when you were around 14. Yeah. You also said that wasn't a fit for you because you were uncomfortable working in a place where wars were made. But then years later, you considered joining the army. Yeah. I mean, I mean, I was about 16. How were you thinking about it back then? Yeah, because I got a work permit because school so wasn't working for me. Because you know, I'd be a really good soldier. Sadly. I think I'm constantly as I look, and this is only in hindsight, for someone to tell me what to do. The rebellion that I had falls apart sometimes. And I could see that I'm like, yeah, I'll do I'm only as good as what I'm around. And I was too a little bit too easily led. And to give an angry young person a weapon, I'd probably be very And I had a lot of anger at that time. And I look at that. But at the same time, I look at the military because I have a complicated relationship with it. That changed my father's life. It allowed us to have health care. It allowed him to get a mortgage. It gave him discipline in ways that he did show up for us. I mean, I think at that time, too, when I took the test. Oh, you took a test. OK, you were serious about it. And I got into the army. Yeah. Because I had a kid. I had to figure out what I was going to do. And my mother was totally against music. Even when I made my first record and was making probably more money than her, she would always ask me, when are you going to get a real job? When you came on the scene back in the early 90s. As yourself, with your shaved head and like your boldness, it felt like we were watching someone who was telling us like, this is it's OK for you to be who you are. Yeah, I think I was faking it till I made it. I mean, when I look back, I was incredibly naive, which I think is can be a safety and a blessing. But sometimes it has repercussions. You know, I'm glad I wasn't so savvy, you know, about like creating some sort of character to sell, you know, some sort of persona. I look back down, I'm like, wow, I'm just really winging it and trying to be myself. But I'm also, as I move through space and time, authenticity can be unsustainable as well. You have to keep something for yourself. When you released Plantation Lullabies, nobody was calling it Neo-Soul yet. And then came a lot of other artists, D'Angelo and Maxwell, Erykah Badu. And suddenly there was this whole movement and people then began calling you its mother. And I've always wondered, what is your thought about that title? Does it fit? No, not at all. I don't think at all. I mean, generalizations are made. It's made so that you can sell a product. It's a cool moniker, but like Ecclesiastes, there's nothing new under the sun. And that's far from true, yeah. I just think, you know what the common thread between me, D'Angelo, and Erykah Badu is? Is an engineer named Bob Power, who's my mentor and someone I love very dearly. Just a life-changing person for me. I think that sound that people are talking about is that warmth that he brought to mixing and engineering at that time. But I think these are three artists who are grounded in the Black American music diaspora with all these ghosts of Africa. And I think that the common thread there, again, is just people who weren't afraid to have a self, be a self. Yeah. So why doesn't it fit? Why doesn't that? Neo, new soul? No, I think we just, I'm just soulful. I mean, I'm just Phoebe Snow, Roberta Flack. There's nothing new to what I'm doing. Curtis Mayfield, I'm just a child out of Curtis Mayfield. I'm just a child from George Clinton. There's a lot he's given us lyrically about upliftment. I'm a child of James Brown. Dorothy Atkins. Ashby. I'm a child of Jerry Allen. You know, I'm like, I'm not the mother of anything. You know, if anything, you know, the record that most influenced me is a Clifford Brown record my father gave me, Brown Eyes. You know, I like, I know that's in there. And Bobby Humphreys and Gil Scott Heron and Nikki Giovanni. Or, you know, I didn't know it then. But I think I'm. I think I'm more connected to Nina Simone, someone who didn't sing at first, wanted to just be a musician. And they told her, you know, you got to come back to this gig and sing some songs or you don't keep this gig. And so she sang. Or, you know, George Benson started out just as a singer. And then they told him he needed to play an instrument. It wasn't enough. So he picked up the guitar. You know, like, I'm a child of that. I'm someone, I'm a person of color who would have been a good singer. I'm a soldier who could not be in I.T., who could not go to college or be a banker. So I had to use what I had to make the best of what I could for the children that I have chosen to take care of. So I'm the mother of nothing. I'm the child of many. I'm just wondering if it had not. Because you tell the story many times about how you became a vocalist to start. Some of the stories you tell are that vocalists kept, like, not showing up. When you were trying to make a demo tape or you were asked to sing from someone, by someone else. But, like, if none of those things had ever happened, do you think you would have stepped into musicianship as a vocalist? Or would you have taken another path, maybe with bass or with other instruments? Yeah, I just, I sung out of necessity. I am a child of hip-hop. Definitely, that's a big influence. But, yeah, it's just. I knew I would never be a. Virtuoso, like Jaco Pastorius or Wayne Shorter. But I knew I wanted to create and write pieces of sound that would inspire virtuosos to want to play it. I know once I discovered Catano Veloso that there was something else deeper to what music could be. You could change the landscape, change the feeling in the room and society. I also met a young man named D'Antoni. And he showed me that it was also this way of tapping into the universe in a different way. And I just feel like I have more faith than I have knowing. And I try to get out of my own way. I want to play one of the breakout songs from that album, just a little bit. If that's your boyfriend, he wasn't last night. Let's listen. You say that's your boyfriend, you say I'm out of line. Funny, he said I could cry. Call him up anytime, you could call me wrong. Say that I ain't right, but if that's your boyfriend, he wasn't last night. I'm the kind of woman, I'll do almost anything. To get what I want, I might play any little game. Call me what you like, but you know it's true. You're just jealous, cause he wasn't with you. Don't mean no harm. I just like what I see and it ain't my fault if he wants me. Got what I wanted and the feeling was right. Boyfriend, boyfriend, yes I had you. If that's your boyfriend, if that's your boyfriend, if that's your boyfriend, he wasn't last night. All right, that's going to be in my ear for the rest of the day, that earworm. That was Michelle Indigicello singing If That's Your Boyfriend. You know, you've told this story many times about how this song came about. You were involved with a man whose girlfriend confronted you and mocked your appearance because she couldn't imagine that her boyfriend would be attracted to you. And out of that humiliation came this incredibly defiant song. When you listen to it now, what do you hear underneath all of that bravado? Oh, wow. Shame sometimes and humiliation. Yeah, I mean, it was hard. What was hard? Just to like fight for your place, you know. And I didn't know much about romantic interactions or trying to have a relationship. So it's really the bravado is just like. You know, a catharsis. I'm just trying to like, you know, big up myself. That's all. Just like any other MC. Just trying to big up myself. If you're just joining us, I'm talking with musician and composer Michelle Indigicello. She rose to prominence in the 1990s with her groundbreaking blend of funk, soul and hip hop. Her new album is called Synonym. More of our conversation after a break. This is Fresh Air. I want to close with the last song on your new album, Synonym. It was originally sung by Bob Dylan. It's Bob Dylan's With God on Our Side. It was written in 1963. And it's a song about how nations justify war and violence by believing God is on their side. And your version features Bill Callahan and Chris Steele. And do you sing on this particular? Yeah, I'm at the end. I'm in there. Trust me. I try to tell people, especially as a bass player, it's more important that you feel me than hear me. You have to feel the bass as well as, you know, audibly hear it. That's the power of it. The low end. And my voice is definitely in there. And you would miss me if I was gone. But I'm in there. Existing among others. Let's listen. Oh, my name. It is nothing. My age, it means less. The. The country I come from is called the Midwest. I was taught and brought up there, the laws to abide. And that the land that I live in has God on its side. Oh, the history books tell it, they tell it so well. The cavalry's charged, the Indians fell. The cavalry's charged, the Indians died. Oh, the country was young with God on its side. Oh, the Spanish-Americans. The war had its day. And the Civil War, too, was soon laid away. And the names of the heroes I was made to memorize. With guns in their hands and God on their side. Oh, Michelle, you have said that you listen to this song a lot. You have said that you listen to Dylan's original. And when you listen to it, you heard more aggression in the lyrics than what the folk arrangement kind of allowed. And this arrangement, I mean, every single word is like on full display. What were you hearing in these words that you felt the music wasn't fully expressing or that you could express in this particular arrangement? Oh, well, I got to say, I'm new to Dylan, too. He's another human. He's another human being who's, like, just changed my consciousness. My friend Chris Bruce gave me Chronicles, which I read when he gave it to me in, like, 2011, I think. I'm not sure. But, yeah, and then it hit me and it hurt my feelings because I used to think he was kind of trolling us. Like, why does he sing like that? Is he making fun of black people? Or I don't know what he's doing. I couldn't get it. Oh, that's interesting. Yeah. And then we would be on. We'd go on tour and we'd play music for each other and they would play these incredible songs by Bob Dylan. And then I read the book again and it was like another tone to shift my consciousness, to see life as this performance and you have to choose how you want, what clown you want to be in this circus. And then to know his spiritual insights. And then I just started looking at the words and I can't imagine his effect on people in the 60s. They were. He must have thought he was like straight from heaven, you know, just what he was able to vocalize. Yeah, what he was expressing. So it just rang so true for me. And I wanted that to be the forefront of the song. Michelle Ndegiachelo, this has been such a pleasure to talk with you. Thank you so much. You too. I'm so grateful for your time and kindness. Thank you so much. Michelle Ndegiachelo. Michelle Ndegiachelo's new album is called Synonym. Tomorrow on Fresh Air, writer David Troyer's Ojibwe mother saw America as a country that tried to destroy her people. His father, a Jewish refugee, saw it as the country that saved his life. In his new book, The Savage Mind, Troyer explores how that violent history still lives inside of us. I hope you can join us. To keep up with what's on the show and get highlights of our interviews, follow us on Instagram at NPR Fresh Air. Fresh Air's executive producer is Sam Brigger. Our technical director and engineer is Audrey Bentham. Our interviews and reviews are produced and edited by Phyllis Myers, Anne-Marie Boldenado, Lauren Krenzel, Teresa Madden, Monique Nazareth, Thea Chaloner, Susan Yakundi, Anna Bauman, and Nico Gonzalez-Whistler. Our digital media producer is Molly C.V. Nesper. Roberta Shorrock directs the show. With Terry Gross, I'm Tanya Mosley. When the river was deep, I didn't falter. When the mountain was high, I still believed. When the valley was low, it didn't stop me. I knew you were waiting, knew you were waiting for me. With an endless desire. I kept on searching. Searching. Sure, in time, my eyes would meet. For you. Like a bridge that's so far. The heart is all mine. One touch and you set me free. I don't regret a single moment. No, I don't. I know you don't. I know you don't. I know you don't. Thank you.