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I would like to try to put one of Radano's points in a different, perhaps older, context. He writes of the increasing references to African-American music in the 1840s and talks about the discourse of folk authenticity that was used to describe it. In my view at least, the 1840s and 1850s were a key time in the development of slave culture. Examining the written record for these years, one finds fewer references among whites to barbarism or the strangeness of African-American sounds. There seems an almost palpable sense that, finally, after a century and a half of living check by jowl a growing number of whites are beginning to appreciate black culture. Not only did you have whites as spectators on plantations at corn shuckings (and they are really a post-1830 development, as Roger Abrahams has shown), funerals and the like, but whites in cities such as Richmond in the 1850s actively sought out opportunities to come in contact with black culture. They observed slaves singing as they worked in the tobacco factories and, most importantly, they filled the amen benches in churches and watched and listened to blacks pray and, particularly, sing. These people were the forebears of the whites who would listen to blues and jazz in the twentieth century and this too is the line out of which John and Alan Lomax came. There is another group of whites that do not get talked about much that I find fascinating. I am particularly drawn to moments when white observers, mostly writers of some sort, despite an intense and very unpleasant racism that was a commonplace of the time, are forced, no matter how reluctantly, to concede that there was "something" to black life. More often than hot these occasions centered on some aspect of African-American expressive culture, most commonly music and/or dance and most commonly what moved them was a highly syncretic performance of some sort or other. On an evening in late June 1840 in New York City, the residents of Park Place were waked up, such as were asleep, by a strain of most exquisite harmony, in which the bugle predominated. "The last rose of summer" was the air, and most beautifully was it played. If was followed by "Away with melancholy," with the variations, executed by the bugle solo, such as seldom have been heard in that quiet neighborhood. The moon was just rising over the turrets and trees to the east, and many of the windows in the street were thrown open, with fair eyes peeping forth upon the night scene. From Broadway a considerable crowd was attracted to the spot where the Serenaders stood. This spot was opposite some trees opposite No. 10 Park Place. After several other strains, executed with the same exquisite beauty, the Serenaders slowly withdrew towards the College grounds below, and soon disappeared in the shades of night. (New York Herald 1840) The Serenaders were in fact Francis Johnson and seven or eight members of his band, all black. …

In August 1814, as the British naval blockade of New York tightened, the "free people of color" called a public meeting and resolved to offer their services to the city's Committee of Defense. To that end, they inserted a notice in the New York Evening Post, instructing the blacks to assemble in the park at five o'clock on Monday morning and to proceed from there to Brooklyn Heights where they would assist in erecting fortifications. The subsequent labors of the group were of little practical value as the expected attack did not materialize; later that week the British forces sailed up the Potomac and burned the Capitol and White House. But the symbolic importance of the involvement of New York's free blacks in the defense of their city was considerable. The vast majority of those who crossed the East River to help fortify Brooklyn Heights were either ex-slaves or the sons of slaves. The looming crisis threatened to bring down a regime that recently had enslaved them and that still held many of their compatriots in bondage. But instead of showing hostility or indifference, New York's free blacks had publicly seized the opportunity to demonstrate their allegiance to the city. A letter by a "Citizen of Color" printed in the Evening Post under the caption "A Test of Patriotism" made that very point. It was, he declared, the "duty of every colored man resident in this city to volunteer." Under New York's liberal laws, the writer continued, "we dwell in safety and pursue our honest callings, none daring to molest us, whatever his complexion or circumstances." Such statements were probably dictated as much by pragmatism as by patriotism, by blacks' desire to convince white New Yorkers of their civic worth and thus to win better treatment. Hindsight has shown that such hopes would eventually prove naive. Leon E Litwack and others have demonstrated that free blacks were not in the end able to live as independent and equal citizens in a society paying no heed to "complexion or circum