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Nikita Gale’s Takers at LAXART centers around a video of two people beating the shit out of one another. Filmed inside the gallery, the scene features two unassuming white men in blue jeans and crew-necks delivering uppercuts, rib kicks, and head stomps onto the other’s increasingly exhausted body. The scene is soundtracked by Big Mama Thornton’s 1953 song “Hound Dog” 1953—Elvis’ 1956 cover of the song is significantly more popular—which bounces against the walls in a muffled echo as the two men spar.
The presence of both recording artists seems to haunt LAXART’s interior—the gallery is in fact the former home of the record company Radio Recorders, where Thornton recorded “Hound Dog” (albeit at another of the label’s studios two blocks away) and Elvis recorded three records himself. In Takers (2022), viewers hear Thornton’s voice sing “You ain’t nothing but a hound dog” but instantly think of Elvis. To undo this sort of psychic connection—and likewise, all instances wherein popular works are more associated with white artists’ reproductions than their Black originators (think of the numerous times Led Zeppelin has been accused of stealing from blues musicians)—requires a sort of mental hijacking. Thus, Gale’s installation offers an assault on our collective consciousness akin to an act of violence. The subjects of the video brawl and throw each other into the gallery’s walls—all-white barricades that serve as stand-ins for the systemic concealment of Black artists’ influence on popular culture.
The combat of the two men, who are professional stunt performers, is choreographed and methodical. It’s the sort of action you might find on Friday Night SmackDown!, the camera strategically floating around the assault to make the moments of impact appear as realistic and painful as possible. As the men heave each other into the drywall, the lens peers through the holes left behind. In one instance, the camera moves into an alcove on the other side of the wall, dusty and unfinished. While it’s not clear where the music is emanating from, Thorton’s voice is louder during these moments, growing clearer and more assertive. It feels as if the camera wants to linger there—in this hidden, hardwood-paneled nook—but the grunts and punches echoing off camera draw it, and us, back into the main gallery space. As the camera retreats from inside the wall, Thornton’s crooning again becomes deadened, unable to seep out through the perforations created by the men’s assault.
By keeping the holes punched into the gallery walls during filming intact for the run of the exhibition, Gale seemingly invites viewers to pick up where the camera left off—encouraging us to search for Thornton’s voice in the cracks and fissures left behind. Though the song does not play in the gallery and only echoes through the video, the viewer still gets the sense that more work is to be done, that Thornton’s voice might only be found through further demolition.
While Elvis and Thornton represent a notable historical example, white musicians continue to achieve more renown and commercial success than the Black artists they borrow from (Robin Thicke losing the suit filed against him by the estate of Marvin Gaye over the 2013 song “Blurred Lines” is a recent example). In Takers, two white assailants attack one another, symbolically destroying a barricade that conceals the voice of an oft-overlooked Black musician. Thus, Gale suggests it is the responsibility of gatekeepers within the music industry to demolish the institutions that devalue Black artistry. What’s needed is an assault on these stubborn conventions—more punches and body slams, more cracks in the drywall.
Nikita Gale: Takers runs from May 7–June 25 at LAXART (7000 Santa Monica Blvd., Los Angeles, CA).