Omar Tyree raw and uncut: the self-described "Urban Griot" hopes to cultivate more black male readers with his next novel Leslie - Cover Story

Black Issues Book Review, July-August, 2002 by Brett Johnson

On a warm April night, the Love Jones fallout ripples through a New York City night-club where several wannabes have come hoping to be discovered. Credit three things to Love Jones--that mid-90s movie of buppie-love--a bangin' soundtrack, open-mic nights suddenly becoming as cool as crowding the local hip-hop club and, unfortunately, lots of not-so-well-spoken-word poetry. The movie inspired once-closeted singers, poets and rappers of varying skills to express themselves before packed clubs, cafes, and libraries long before HBO got hip to Mos Def.

Tonight's showcase in Manhattan's trendy lower regions is no different. Lots of "Big-ups," "You go girl!" and "Preach!" to mediocre verse and gospel-tinged singing. Among the aspiring talents, a best-selling novelist anxiously awaits his turn to take the stage. Tonight though, the writer in question--Omar Tyree--is not himself. In fact, he winces when introduced to the crowd of trendy, well-groomed urban professionals.

"Damn, I knew this was gonna happen," he mumbles. "I told her I'm not Omar, tonight I'm the Urban Griot!"

A griot--according to leaflets Tyree has distributed to the audience before beginning to versify over the Middle Eastern jazz rhythms of Alice Coltrane who oozes what he calls "spoken groove"--is a "wise and knowledgeable" storyteller in the African oral tradition. He sits on a stool, caramel-colored Kangol cocked to the side, marble-faced notebook in hand, and reads "Journey into the Mind of a Black Man." The poetry evokes the cool vibe of Gil Scott-Heron, but with the brash energy of a 33-year-old brother from Philly who grew up on hip hop.

"Urban Griot" is Tyree's alter ego, a self-styled alias he hopes will strike a chord with other black men who can relate to his hip-hop sensibility. But since the early success of his first book in 1995, a young woman's coming-of-age story called Flyy Girl, Tyree claims his male contemporaries have yet to embrace his fiction as much as black women have.

Like fellow authors E. Lynn Harris and Eric Jerome Dickey, who write variations of the black relationship novel, Tyree is popular among the beauty shop crowd. And that bothers him to no end.

"You know how humiliating that is?" he says. "Whenever you hear my name, you want to pass my work off to your girlfriend," says Tyree, the next day over lunch at a posh Manhattan restaurant. "Women say, `why is that humiliating to you? You're making money.' But I can't even talk to my peers and you asking me why that's humiliating," he gripes. "I've got two sons. What are they gonna say, `Daddy made a fortune selling girl books.'"

Selling "girl" books

Throughout his decade-long writing career, Tyree has juggled a balancing act of wanting to increase his male readership while not alienating his female following. But it's an unavoidable circumstance among the book-buying public. And based on Tyree's experience, black men don't read books--at least not his novels.

African Americans spent about $356 million on books in 2000, according to a study by Chicago-based Target Market News, which gathers information about black consumer purchases. And according to the American Booksellers Association, of the 9.9 million black adults who are regular book buyers, more than 75 percent of them are women. When you talk about fiction, the number skyrockets to 90 percent.

"It's torture, man," says Tyree. Add those statistics to constantly having to fend off criticism from literary elitists who disparage his work as overly didactic, and a less secure author would crumble. Not Tyree. His resolve is too strong; his vision, too singular; his passion, too fervent to let those obstacles stop him. His stamina borders on the prolific and is coupled with a marketing strategy that is as aggressive as his often-hyperbolic speech. The brother's got the boastful swagger of your favorite rapper, the entrepreneurial instincts of a street hustler and a pen as swift as his tongue is sharp. His ninth book, Leslie, dubbed an "urban horror story" set in New Orleans is scheduled for an August release.

But Tyree's got other irons in the fire. He moonlights as the "Urban Griot" with a self-published series of "hard-core fiction" books and a spoken-word and rap CD aimed at the fellas. At appearances, he hands out pens and often peddles his books himself. He tours bookstores and open-mic events constantly. You can also purchase Tyree's books and videos from his websites (omartyree.com and theurbangriot.com).

"Don't stop me from doing what I'm doing. Don't stop my hustle," says Tyree. "Like Tupac said, `Old heads trying to hate on my shit.' Don't hate on mine, `cause I'm aiming for new heights and doing it a different way. I've been trained to aim high." So to all ya'll critics, Tyree wants you to just stop the hatin.'

Reared in Philadelphia by his pharmacist mother and a disciplinarian stepfather, young Omar learned early on to carve a path for himself. A rabid fan of Kung fu flicks, Tyree grew up in movie theaters whiling away hours watching triple features of Bruce Lee and Jim Kelly. It was in these darkened halls where he developed an unwavering attention span and his narrative sense of character development, plot and dialogue that would later influence his writing. That and a built-like-a-brickhouse stepfather.