I don’t listen to Wynton Marsalis’ music.

But I do keep up with social media and thus saw people on my timeline discussing the comments he made regarding hip-hop on Jonathan Capehart’s Cape Up podcast. Quoting a post from Essence magazine, Marsalis asserted:” I started saying in 1985 I don’t think we should have a music talking about niggers and bitches and hoes. It had no impact. I’ve said it. I’ve repeated it. I still repeat it. To me, that’s more damaging than a statue of Robert E. Lee.”

Marsalis isn’t novice to such comments. In a 2007 article in The Guardian, he goes into his hatred of the genre. “Rap has become a safari for people who get their thrills from watching African-American people debase themselves, men dressing in gold, calling themselves stupid names like Ludacris or 50 Cent, spending money on expensive fluff, using language like ‘bitch’ and ‘ho’ and ‘nigger’” he argues.

Marsalis’ music and engagement with important issues regarding black personhood—his advocacy during Hurricane Katrina comes to mind—muddies the arguments of his critics. Is he not qualified to talk down on hip-hop? Does his word not carry weight, he who sits at the apex of a black created genre of music—who appeared on the podcast of a black journalist?

The challenge in understanding Marsalis’ comments in context goes beyond the traditional old guard versus new school that is a trope of humanity. It goes deeper into an idea central to black personhood in America—the creation of rebel music.

Jazz was such a rebel music. In its genesis, it was unmistakably black. Even in the 1920’s, as it found a wider audience with white people looking to add some pep to their step, it was black. Though you had artists like Django Reinhardt and Benny Goodman making bank, they were still subjected to the influence—and needed the cosign—of black gatekeepers like Duke Ellington, Miles Davis, Thelonious Monk, and others.

That trend ends, however, when something black becomes beautiful enough for the world to lay claim. Jazz became colonized, and how we treated its figures became warped as well. On the Billboard list for 2017, three of the top five jazz albums of the year are done by white individuals or white groups. While black people still mention jazz for historical purposes (I assume everyone black person grows up and at least has passing familiarity with Kind of Blue), and the Essence Jazz Fest, we know that it no longer truly belongs to us.

And because jazz has been thoroughly colonized, it makes me wonder who Marsalis is speaking to when he denigrates hip hop. As black creatives, we all struggle with producing pure works under the white gaze. At the very least, we want the appearance of our creative work to look flat while we hash out the science of our arts.

I think, for example, of all the hallway conversations I had at Brooklyn Technical High School of who was the most technically proficient rapper of the Lox; the debate always came down to either Jadakiss or Styles P. Such debates about the professional status of the art drove our own creating of cyphers and freestyles. Rap beefs were the sorting mechanisms for hip-hop. The Jay-Z and Nas beef was, at the time, an event of momentous occasion because we rightfully assumed the winner would become the gatekeeper that would keep the art pure and representative of black personhood in America.

Bestowing gatekeeper status is essential to keeping rebel music close to black personhood. White artists who have tried to adopt hip-hop have generally not been able to do so without the cosign of the black gatekeeps of rebel music. It explains the floundering of Vanilla Ice, the lack of acceptance Macklemore has, the swift excommunication of Astor Roth for his stupid comments all those years ago—and the colossal success and respect Eminem has earned from black fans and peers. It remains to be seen how Post Malone’s recent success serves as a barometer for hip-hop’s status as the current rebel music.

Marsalis serves as the gatekeeper of our former rebel music. He acts to distance himself from the music of the drowned city he spoke so fiercely to save. It is odd that a man so fiercely invested in the history of his personhood also stands athwart to the music that has inherited jazz’s rebellious spark.

A legend regarding Marsalis and a dead gatekeeper comes to mind. In a rare occasion, Marsalis shared the stage with an elderly Miles Davis. Davis has always been deeply invested in the black community and was a rock star before rock was created. He was irrepressible black personhood. And Davis refused to perform while the young upstart shared the stage with him. A gatekeeper, before he passed, performed his duties to keep his music rebellious.

I still listen to Miles Davis’ music.