“Where is God?”
Diquan Julius asked the difficult question that threads the minds of people of faith in traumatic times.
The same voice that he, a singer and composer from the South, uses as a powerful instrument of change in the church, now cusses out the very people he once ministered.
How could a man who was doing God’s work and ministering to dozens of people deal with so much adversity while pursuing, in his mind, a noble cause? Why was it so difficult to prosper in the gospel music industry? Why was his personal life taking so many losses?
“I just didn’t have answers at that point,” Diquan said, “And I’m like ‘[God] can you help me once? I’m praying, I’m asking, I’m begging. Can you help me?’”
Dejected and exasperated, Diquan reached his limit. In a time where he needed support the most, he felt like people in the church had turned their backs on him. He lost all trust for “church folk.” And in following a growing trend among many people of faith, he ultimately left the church altogether. However, he never left his passion for creating music.
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Music itself had always been a sanctuary for Diquan. His father, Cecil “Dog Cat” Julius, loved to play old school rhythm and blues tunes at their home in Hemingway, South Carolina. In spite of living in destitute conditions – trailer park homes in the woods amidst dirt roads – the music his father played uplifted the family’s spirits.
“Those are some of the happiest moments in my household,” Diquan said while recalling his father singing along to soulful records of the 70s and 80s.
For decades, R&B music has had a history of bringing joy to African American communities, with its origins dating back to post World War II. According to a Britannica study on the genre, early forms of R&B were written with humorous lyrics and upbeat rhythms. Ironically, this happened during a time where there was very little to laugh about for African Americans. Jim Crow laws and racial tensions had social reform movements marching to the beat of a slow drum. Yet African Americans continued to dance irrespective of their trials, (probably to the groovy sounds of Big Joe Turner and Roy Brown) just like Diquan and his father dancing blissfully in the middle of a dubious existence.
But where R&B music at home served as an escape, gospel music in church initially seemed like more of a detention for Diquan as a child. His mother, Patricia, adamantly insisted on her sons being a part of every choir in their church. She grew up with sisters who were gospel singers for quartet groups. She was accustomed to music being an integral part of her religious experience and she felt that her sons needed to have the same rearing. Diquan hated this. It wasn’t necessarily going to church that bothered him at the time.
“I thought my voice was terrible,” Diquan admitted, “But there’s no question when you’re growing up in the South. Mama always got you in church.”
Going to church was non-negotiable and the South has a long tradition of strong church communities among African Americans. Oftentimes, gospel music is the pillar on which these churches stand. African American spiritual music even has Southern origins. And unlike the early renderings of its R&B cousin, spiritual gospel songs early on were oftentimes sung with grave and somber tones. Negro spirituals were the songs of slaves who were stripped of everything including their language. They even used these songs to communicate with each other without their masters knowing.
Growing up in a Southern church—rich with history and culture—created a passion in Diquan for ministering to others. He seemed to have found a defined pathway to a future in gospel music. However, he was also deeply immersed in a love affair with R&B.
Akin to the legendary Ray Charles, Diquan was a boy from the South raised in a Christian household who was drawn to the blues.
As a child, another escape for Diquan came in the form of Disney movies. Growing up during the Disney Renaissance immersed him in a plethora of renowned musical scores. It gave him his first spark of ingenuity.
“I fell in love with orchestral music because of Disney,” he said, “It’s something about the Disney music that makes me feel like I can create something.”
His first foray into creating music yielded positive results.
By 2014, Diquan was making noise in the gospel music scene. He was writing and producing songs; gospel radio stations were playing his music and he even performed at the Stellar Awards (the gospel music version of the Grammys). He would go on to create gospel songs with symphonic harmonies such as “Champion” or his Billboard charting song “Sing Praises.”
Still, in the midst of his increased exposure and gospel music ascension, he made an unfortunate revelation.
“I realized that this gospel industry is nothing but business. This has nothing to do with God at all,” Diquan said, “And then when you couple that with what you see in church, it is very hard to keep your integrity there.”
Although he was put off by the business side of gospel music, his ultimate career dreams and goals resembled that of a man not only hoping to change hearts but of one hoping to make some serious (financial) change. But that was the problem.
According to ZipRecruiter.com the average salary for a church musician is $254 a week. This amounts to $13,213 a year or $6 per hour.
There is usually no money in the church music industry. At least not enough to support a young man like Diquan with a wife and newborn daughter.
He had a solid day job that helped him provide for his family, but his musical aspirations were waning. The ever-present burdens that gospel artists dealt with were beginning to take their toll on him.
“There’s so many boxes you have to check off in the gospel industry. You can’t have a past, which everybody does,” Diquan exclaimed. “You got to be what they call is ‘anointed,’ you have to be able to do a lot of riffs and runs. There’s a certain way that they want you to sing.”
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In 2015, Diquan was headlining a concert at his church. His small church was located in the back of a warehouse where the industrial room was converted to feel more like a typical house of worship. There was an elevated stage with an altar where Diquan stood. In the audience, there were about ten rows of a dozen chairs on each side of the room. There wasn’t an empty seat in the place that day.
His father, battling cancer at the time, sat in attendance near the center of the congregation. In the middle of his music set, Diquan took a moment to acknowledge his dad.
“This man is one of the main reasons I sing today,” Diquan said while signaling to the band to lower the music. “He’s fighting cancer right now, but the devil is a liar!”
His father stood in response and made a gesture with his arms as if he was flexing his muscles. It wasn’t a moment of boasting but rather an expression of triumph. He didn’t say a word, but he flashed a wide smile as tears welled in his eyes.
On the microphone, Diquan continued to cry out that his father would beat cancer.
“Yes, Dad! Flex your muscles. God is greater than your cancer!”
The congregation erupted in praise and applause.
A year later, his father would succumb to the illness.
In the aftermath of his father’s death, Diquan found a silver lining that was filled with the promise of a new life. His wife Jazzmyn was pregnant with child number two, their first baby boy.
Several months before the child was due, Diquan admitted to his mother that his father’s death left him with ominous thoughts about the pregnancy.
“Ma,” he said, “I could never imagine God allowing my son to pass away.”
A few months later on October 18, 2018, Diquan and Jazzmyn rejoiced as they welcomed their new son Mason into the world. Diquan always wanted a son. It seemed as if God had finally answered one of his prayers. Yet things took a turn for the worse. Their elation was short lived as Mason’s condition quickly deteriorated. While they were still at the hospital, Mason died. The cause of his death was unknown.
“I believe that if this was a miscarriage, things probably would’ve been a little different,” Diquan said. “But for me, to be able to see him and hold him—that was most devastating.”
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At the cusp of a breakdown, his creativity was intertwined with the pain he channeled into his songs. At one point he even created a rap record aimed at those who hurt him
“I made a diss track to the church that actually got into the clubs accidentally,” he recalled with a sheepish grin. “[It was] called ‘F**k Them People.’”
But as hurt as he was, he ultimately decided that revenge wasn’t enough of a motivator to create new music.
He yearned for a feeling of excitement. The same kind he felt as a child listening to his father’s old school R&B tunes or watching The Little Mermaid or The Lion King. And after years of feeling like he himself lacked a true voice in the gospel industry, Diquan decided that it was time to return to the home of his musical Pride Lands. So, he turned back to R&B.
“It made me feel good. It put me back in the comfort zone.”
Diquan continued: “I’m able to express myself a lot deeper in R&B music, it’s music than can help you express all of your emotions.”
Tolu Mide, a popular Nigerian-Canadian soul singer, is a fan of Diquan’s approach to the genre. She compares his sound to acclaimed soulful singers such as Raphael Saadiq, Jaheim and Guordan Banks.
“His voice is smooth, and his music is dynamic”, Tolu says while nodding her head to Diquan’s newest single La La land. “The music is engaging; I like the groove and his stuff just feels good to listen to.”
Settling down on one genre has brought peace and freedom to Diquan after years of vacillating between R&B and gospel. He started attending Sunday services again, but he’s asserted that it’s only because he’s close to the pastor of that particular church.
For Diquan, while creating R&B songs served to be a therapeutic method of healing his emotional wounds, it also provided an avenue to healing in his spiritual life. Though his belief in God’s existence still remained, Diquan had a change on the way he viewed God in his personal life.
“I’m not real big on deities anymore. I believe that there is one God that brings all of it together,” Diquan said, “I’m not about to go to a Muslim person and say, ‘Hey man, why are you praying five times a day?’ They can come back to me and say, ‘Well, why aren’t you praying in the day at all?’ I just believe that there’s one God and God loves everybody.”