Counterfeit Madison

BIO

Sharon Udoh often creates and performs under the name Counterfeit Madison. She is a gay first-generation Nigerian-American composer, pianist, vocalist, educator, speaker, and cultural critic. Her work, whether original or through the lens of Nina Simone, focuses on how humans change over time, the necessity of personal revolution and connection, and emotional curiosity. Her performances are magnetic, dangerous, and kind; they embody the richness of complexity, absurdity, empathy, chaos, and the struggle and freedom of Black and brown individuals in America and worldwide.

STATEMENT

I’m a gay, Black, and female classical pianist and composer, and I have struggled to find community for most of my life. Luckily, music is a place I've found temporary belonging. More specifically, Nina Simone's music has been the most grounding force for me in the last decade. Our musical stories are eerily similar, and I feel connected to her in an otherworldly way. She is my ancestor, after all—playing her music only solidifies this connection.  Nina's art asks various questions about whiteness, global Blackness, sexuality, femininity, classical performance, revolution, and freedom. I am asking the same questions in my art and life; a lot of us Americans are. Nina once exclaimed, “I’ll tell you what freedom is to me: no fear!” I may never know the answers to these questions, but at the very least, I can create, explore, mourn, defy, reinvent, and chant my way, alongside my ancestor, into fearless freedom during my time on this earth.

Interview with Counterfeit Madison

Written by Andreana Donahue

Can you tell us a bit about your background and how you became interested in becoming an artist? What were some early influences?

When my older sister and I were both young, she used to play a little 80s-style Casio keyboard, with what little she knew. I would watch her, and then when she would finish playing and go upstairs to do her homework, I would get on the bench and play what I had heard and watched. My mother, who was usually in the kitchen at this time, didn’t notice that the person playing had switched. When my mom eventually discovered that I was indeed one playing, she alerted my father and they enrolled me in classical piano lessons. There, I developed an affinity for the music of Chopin, Bach, Rachmaninoff, and Debussy, to name a few. Around the same time, my mom had joined a church, and I started playing there as well. A bit later, I added singing to my playing, and my vocal stylings were definitely influenced by great gospel singers such as Fred Hammond, Donnie McClurkin, Richard Smallwood, and by the three-part harmonies present in their choirs and ensembles, as well as Kirk Franklin’s.

When I discovered the music of Nina Simone, whose work I experiment with often now, I was flabbergasted to discover that she and I have eerily similar backgrounds of classical music and vocal stylings driven by our identical tenor ranges. Yet, I came into my musicianship without knowing who she was—I was 29 years old when I heard a song of hers for the first time!

Where are you currently based and what initially attracted you to working in this community? Are there any aspects of this specific place that have surfaced in your work?

I’m in Columbus, Ohio. An unfortunate circumstance involving my dad’s deportation brought me here from Cincinnati, Ohio. The human landscape of Columbus is wonderful—some of the folks that I’ve met here are truly special individuals. From an artistic standpoint, I’ve both rounded out and fine-tuned my musical composition practice by writing and performing with string and horn players and percussionists with whom I’ve developed lasting relationships. I was also introduced to Nina Simone here, while working in a bakery and hearing her voice on the speakers, and her music was like a balm when the hashtagged police murders started shortly after I relocated 2 hours north. From a personal standpoint, Columbus is the place that held me in such delicate but affirming care while I discovered my homosexuality, left my childhood church of more than 25 years, and reclaimed my Black identity in this new city. My music flourished and seemed to abandon genre; my understanding of my art making changed drastically, and this community stood by and watched it all happen, cheering me on the entire way. I also live about 10 minutes away from the Wexner Center for the Arts, which is an arts institution that’s unique even across the American arts field as a whole. They have graciously produced a myriad of my larger community-wide shows in and out of my 2019-2020 residency.

Can you tell us about your studio space? What are some of the most crucial aspects of a studio that make it workable for you?

I’m a bit of anomaly in that I make a lot of my art without a studio space. I write the majority of my arrangements in coffee shops and in parks, far away from my piano. In quarantine, I wrote on my friend’s porches and in partner’s houses. I’ll sometimes practice what I’ve written on the keyboard in my room and make a demo to share with collaborators if needed. When I am finally ready to record, I’ll take my humble mic setup to a nearby church with a grand that I love and track there. I would say the common factor between all the places I create is coffee and water!

What is a typical day like?

I am also a high school administrator, so most of my creative work begins after 4pm. Before work, I’ll stretch for 15 minutes, and do an intense cardio workout for 20, and I’ll outline my creative goals for the day, so that when I leave the school, I know what I’m going to be focusing on in the evening. Now that the world is opening back up, I’ll go to a coffee shop after work and respond to any pressing emails. Then I’ll create, edit, re-work the project at hand and give myself a cutoff of 10pm. I try as much as possible to take in some form of media every day; there is so much excellent storytelling from people of color across mediums these days. I’ll end the day with an hour of stretching and will be in bed by 1am.

What gets you in a creative groove? What puts a damper on your groove?

I’m a little ridiculous and get inspired by almost anything, from a drink of water that hits the spot on a random summer afternoon to an electrifying Tune-Yards yell to a cat meme on Instagram. I do love the artform of dance a great deal, that can really get me in the mood to write. I rarely lose my creative groove—I’m tremendously fortunate that I’m quite prolific, and regardless of how I’m feeling, music writing has been there to help me process all of my varied emotions that come with being a Black first-generation gay American woman.

What criteria do you follow for selecting materials? Do you prefer to maintain a narrow focus or work across diverse media? How do you navigate the limitations and possibilities that result from this path?

My approach when beginning any project is two-pronged; on one end, the narratives, and on the other, the constraints. I love a good story, and I love the challenge of a limitation, and where my focus lies is how the world I’m trying to build meets the necessary framework to build it. One of the benefits of being a classical pianist is that it can be all-encompassing; I can create an entire galaxies with just me and a piano. I learned that from Chopin! Depending on the needs of the story I want to tell, I’ll add other instruments and voices along with mine. With my own music, I’ve used a punk band. With an Aretha Franklin tribute show, I used an 18-piece ensemble with bold horn quartet. With a Sade show, I used electric guitar and voice. With Nina Simone, it’s the most varied: I’ve used a jazz quintet, a cello trio, or just me and a grand.

Can you walk us through your overall process? How would you describe your approach to manipulating materials? What about decision-making and editing?

In reference to the narratives and the constraints of my project, I ask the following types of questions when guiding my process, decision-making, and editing: Who is this story for? What forces are being uplifted? Am I unconsciously supporting or disrupting any systems? How does my instrumentation enhance the words, movement, and emotions inherent in a piece? Is this timely? Is this timeless? Is this liberating me and my Black body?

Can you talk about some of the ongoing interests, imagery, and concepts that have informed your process and body of work over time? How do you anticipate your work progressing in the future?

I’ve been obsessed with hands for as long as I can remember. I’ve used my hands to communicate, sometimes even more clearly than with my mouth. I’ve used my hands to worship, and to sin. I’ve raised my fist in defiance, and I’ve wiped my tears. I’ve held the hands of strangers and embraced loved ones. And I’ve spent years developing muscle memory in these hands. 

I’ve also have had an interesting relationship throughout my life to immigrant families. When I was younger, it isolated me from my white and Black peers alike, and I rejected my Nigerian identity to try to fit in, and ultimately failed. Since my dad was deported, I've processed it quite a bit, and It’s become a point of immense pride and has begun to make its way into my personal work's subject matter, my stage presence, and my re-invention of Nina Simone’s work. This is still new for me, and I’m excited to see how it will inform my classical music practice.

Do you pursue any collaborations, projects, or careers in addition to your studio practice? If so, can you tell us more about those projects, and are there connections between your studio practice and these endeavors?

Before the quarantine, I was a resident artist at the Wexner Center for the Arts, and was producing a 2 hour Aretha Franklin tribute. I was in high gear, arranging and rehearsing regularly with a myriad of instrumentalists and vocalists at the aforementioned church. This was the time in my career where my collaborators were heavily integrated into my personal practice the most. Very recently, I’ve been working with dancers and producing scores for choreography, but these relationships have developed largely during the quarantine and over Zoom. I am quite interested to see how nature of these collaborations will change with our new and reopening world.

As a result of the pandemic, many artists have experienced limited access to their studios or loss of exhibitions, income, or other opportunities. Has your way of working (or not working) shifted significantly during this time? Are there unexpected insights or particular challenges you’ve experienced?

I had just completed a residency a few weeks before the pandemic hit the United States! In the majority of 2020, I focused more on string composition, recorded various masked and distanced performances, produced two small documentaries based on race-related Zoom interviews, and began to wrote a few essays regarding Nina Simone, Breonna Taylor, and Black sisterhood. I also must say: that little bit of Adobe Premiere that I learned in college really paid off! I have really enjoyed being an amateur video editor.

In a time that seems to be marked by uncertainty, collective anxiety, and increasing social unrest, why do you think the perspectives and contributions of artists remain meaningful? Do you feel a natural relationship exists between your work (or the role artists play more broadly) and confronting established systems—of power, cultural institutions, or otherwise?

Nina Simone famously stated that an artist’s duty is to reflect the times. I agree with her now, but I didn’t always feel this way. Nowadays, I half joke with some of my collaborators about what I believe are the four branches of government: executive, legislative, judicial, and cultural. The way that art can communicate powerfully on a global level and specifically here in the United States makes me feel privileged to be an artist in the 21st century! I’m so lucky that I have lived in same lifetime as Beyoncé, Prince, David Byrne, Toni Morrison, Jordan Peele, Megan Thee Stallion, Desus & Mero, George Michael, and of course Nina Simone, and that list could go on forever.

I honestly didn’t feel a direct connection for a long time between my art and any systems at large, and part of that was me being unsettled in what being Black really meant to me. That started to change gradually for me as a result of processing my own grief from my dad’s deportation to Nigeria, and from personal and collective grief from the recent deaths of Black Americans, beginning with Tamir Rice, rising again with Alton Sterling (who was selling CDs during a summer that I was also on an American tour selling music), and climaxing with the deaths of George Floyd and Breonna Taylor. On the night of the verdict of Breonna’s case, I lay comatose on my kitchen floor in the dark. At the school where I worked, I had been having a lot of race-related conversations with white folks; after the verdict that promptly ended. The final turning point for me occurred when Ma’Khia Bryant was shot a few neighborhoods over from my school the same day of the George Floyd verdict, and I listened in utter confusion as people around me, including Black people, justified her murder, citing that she was a danger to her immediate community.

I reluctantly started to understand what I hoped wasn’t true: all the readings of “White Fragility” and “How To Be An Anti-Racist” during the civil unrest in the summer of 2020 hadn’t had the desired sustained effect, and more importantly, if we Black Americans don’t tell our own stories, someone else will write a narrative on our behalf, and demonize us. My art had previous had the message of holding space for everyone, and I began to shift towards prioritizing the livelihood, exhilaration, rightful anger, and wisdom of Black people. Nina Simone says on her 1970 album Black Gold about her song “Young, Gifted, and Black”: "It is not addressed to white people primarily. Though it doesn't put you down in any way...it simply ignores you. For my people need all the inspiration and love that they can get." Amen, Nina. Amen.

Can you share some of your recent influences? Are there specific works—from visual art, literature, film, or music—that are important to you?

Michaela Coel’s “I May Destroy You” might be my favorite show of all time. It’s one of the most fantastic pieces of storytelling I’ve ever seen. I re-watch often it for its sense of humor, rhythm, and arch; the soundtrack is mind-blowing, and it’s so personal to her, yet I feel like it was made for me and every Black woman! I listen to New York Times’ “Still Processing” regularly; Jenna Wortham and Wesley Morris dive into culture in such a nuanced and amusing manner. At their mentioning, I also just finished the book “Minor Feelings: An Asian American Reckoning” by Cathy Park Hong. This book gave me enormous insight into an Asian-American experience in such a pointed and compassionate way, and  I could relate to a lot of the content as an immigrant, even though I’m not Asian. I have enjoyed clipping.’s last two albums, “There Existed an Addiction to Blood“ and “Visions of Bodies Being Burned” an incredible amount There has been something oddly comforting about these horror albums being the soundtrack to some of the horrible events from the last year. Lastly, I recently attended an event where I was featured in conversation with writer Hanif Abdurraqib. The talk was held on the day of the release of his new book, “The Little Devil In America”, which in my opinion is required reading for every American.

Who are some contemporary artists you’re excited about? What are the best exhibitions you’ve seen in recent memory?

A few years ago, I saw a Mickalene Thomas exhibition at the Wexner Center for the Arts here in Columbus, and that profound showing blessed me forever. During the quarantine, I haven’t been able to get enough of the work of visual artists Qualesha Wood and Kenya (Robinson), and filmmakers Keisha Witherspoon and Terence Nance. It would be a dream to work with the latter two!

Do you have any tips or advice that someone has shared with you that you have found particularly helpful?

When I was younger, my dad gave me advice often. Now, I find it all very helpful, of course. At the time, it was the worst. It was delivered in his harsh accent, wide-eyed, finger-pointed, while I was crying, defeated from falling short of some goal. My father, a proud, reserved, and straightforward Nigerian man, isn’t particularly sentimental, and he had absolutely no time for my tears, and the sappy coddling that I longed for in those moments was completely absent.

In one instance, I had gotten a poor grade on an important exam. He looked at me so sternly—and somehow so caringly—and lifted that familiar finger to my face. “Finegirl!” He shouted my pet name at me. “Einstein only had two eyes, one nose, and one mouth!” I remember being so annoyed, but I later cherished what he was trying to say: Einstein, a genius, was a human being, just like me, and was given a gift, just like me. He wasn’t without failure, like me, and was capable of greatness, like me. I’m grateful to my dad for that treasure of a one-liner.

What are you working on in the studio right now? What’s coming up next for you?

Right now, I’m working with a New York choreographer named Sydnie Mosley to score her dance theater piece called “Purple” and soon  I'm starting a new piece with choreographers from Columbus dance collective Flux + Flow. I’m also building a multidisciplinary piece based of Nina Simone’s 1970 album Black Gold.

Anything else you would like to share?

I’m so happy that during this lifetime, I get to live it as a Black gay female artist. So, so, so happy. Also! Here are the credits of the photos I included: all performance shots were taken by Chip Willis and all press shots were taken by Kate Sweeney. Lastly, thank you so much, Elena! I hope to meet you someday!

To find out more about Counterfeit Madison check out her Instagram and website.