Interview by Charlie Braxton
Tell us a little bit about yourself? Who is Thomas Bess?
I’m a multidisciplinary artist. But more than that, I’m someone who’s lived a fast life and came out the other side choosing art as my drug of choice. I use every medium—music, film, visual work, performance—to tell the stories I didn’t always have the space to tell growing up. My work is rooted in real places, real people, and real contradictions. It’s personal, but it’s not just about me. I’m documenting what it feels like to survive with style, to find beauty in broken things, and to serve something real—even if it’s small. Especially if it’s small.
What was life like growing up?
I spent half my life in rural Jones County and the other half in Atlanta. So it was a real country mouse comes to the city situation. In the country, things moved slow—you learn to watch, listen, survive off instinct. Then I hit Atlanta, and everything got louder, faster, slicker. It was like being thrown into a different movie. But I think that mix—the woods and the concrete—shaped my lens. It taught me how to shift, how to spot the real from the fake, and how to move between worlds without losing myself.
I first became aware of your music through your current single “Serving Small at the Citgo,” which was sent to me by the visual artist, Michi Meko, and I was blown away. The video was amazing. It came off like an art film. What inspired the song and video?
That duality—growing up country then landing in the city—that’s the root of the sound. There’s a rhythm in the South that don’t leave you. The stillness of red dirt roads, mixed with the hustle of corner stores and car bass in Atlanta. I come from a background richer than most realize—those same grounds raised legends like Little Richard, Otis Redding, James Brown. So the sound is part gospel, part grit, part back-of-the-bus dreamer. I’m pulling from what’s in the soil and what’s in the speakers. The vibe is heritage and hunger colliding.
How do you define your music?
I think of it as a kind of excrement—a beautiful vomit. It’s not polished or pre-planned. It’s something that has to come out. A purge of feeling, memory, tension. Sometimes it’s ugly. Sometimes it catches the light in a way that surprises even me. But it’s always honest. My music isn’t made to impress—it’s made to release. It’s what happens when you hold too much for too long, and finally let it go.
Who are your musical influences?
Delta blues, bass music, hip hop, trip hop, 90s alt, classical, jazz—and musicals like Jesus Christ Superstar and Hair. I’m drawn to anything that carries weight and fire. Music that feels like a release, a reckoning, or a prayer.
Are you aware of these influences when you record?
I’m not sure I do. I mostly move off feeling. Sometimes the result is profound—sometimes it’s mundane. But it’s always real. I don’t aim for perfection. I aim for truth in the moment. Whatever shows up, I let it speak.
You mentioned to me that you are related to the African American activist, Paul Robeson, who was definitely a renaissance man, does his legacy affect your arts on a sub-conscience level?
When I was a kid, I asked my family if we had any famous people in the bloodline. My father said, “Paul Robeson.” At the time, I had no idea who that was, so I let it go. As I got older and learned more, I was floored. He was a scholar, a professional athlete, a singer, an actor, a lawyer—a global force who stood firm in his beliefs. I wish I had even ten percent of his accomplishments. That kind of legacy is humbling. I can’t say I consciously shape my art around him, but on a subconscious level, I think it’s there. I stand on what I believe. I’m passionate about the arts in all forms. And I hope, in my own way, to carry forward some of that impact—through honesty, through expression, and through how I show up in the world.
In addition to being a lyricist, you’re also a visual artist as well. I noticed that you blend the visual art with your music, so the question for me is when you’re working on a project, which comes first, the art or the music?
Often, they come simultaneously. One sparks the other. Sometimes a sound gives me a visual. Other times, an image pulls a melody out of me. They feed off each other. Working that way gives me a unique perspective—it keeps everything connected, like I’m building a whole world, not just a song or a picture.
Who are your favorite visual artists?
Visually, Stefanie Jackson hits home—her work isn’t afraid to tell the truth. Romare Bearden taught me how to collage culture. Picasso broke the rules. And Basquiat? That was raw freedom on canvas—no permission asked.
What about musicians, whose your favorites?
Musically, it’s heavy. Curtis Mayfield made pain sound graceful. Prince and Aretha cut deep and beautiful. Hendrix was electric spirit. Tricky and Radiohead taught me how to stretch sound. Organized Noize and Tribe made the everyday feel epic. D’Angelo, Bilal, Sly Stone—soul with layers. Robert Johnson and Son House were the dirt under the nails. Bowie showed me you could shape shift and still be real. Too many to name—but they all made me feel something sharp, alive, necessary. That’s the energy I carry forward.
What are you currently working on, musically speaking?
I’m working on an ever-evolving music project that I’m slowly rolling out, and eventually it’ll become a full musical. Serving Small by the Citgo is one piece of that bigger body of work. Releasing it in phases gives me room to explore—through film, music, visuals, and all the mediums I work in. .
What about your visual art, what are you working on there?
I’m constantly painting, and I’m open to any gallery that wants to show the work. I’ve been getting into voice-over as well, which lets me approach storytelling from another angle. I’ve got a website—www.thombess.com—where I share new work, sell merch, and keep people tapped into the journey. I’m also putting together a coffee table book to showcase my art in a more permanent way. Everything I make is part of a larger story—it just reveals itself piece by piece.
Any final words?
Thank you, Brother Charles, for giving a damn enough to ask me about my work. That means more than you know. Power to you and yours—may your platform keep lifting voices that matter.
Leave a Reply