I never really understood the notion of celebrating Black History Month. As if all the profoundly intricate influences of Blacks on this country’s past and its current state of affairs could be studied by school children in one — not to mention the shortest — month. As if a day spent on Frederick Douglass, months after the lessons about the abolition movements of the 1840s and onward, constituted an understanding of his contributions to today’s style of rhetoric. Or a mere hour spent on Rosa Parks, weeks before the chapters on the Civil Rights movements during the ’50s, could wholly position her defiance act in the context of today’s civil disobedience.

In a few days, teachers will take down their posters of Martin Luther King, Jr. and Sojourner Truth. VH1 will stop playing installments of “Black in the ’80s” and airing ever-so-informational specials such as “The Fabulous Life of Lil’ John.” Public television will put black history documentaries back up on the shelves to collect dust for another year.

I don’t know about you, but I have no intention of limiting my awareness of black history to February. In fact, I plan on celebrating it just about every other day when I press the play button on my stereo.

It is fairly impossible to ignore the social chronicle of B.B. King singing, “I laid in the ghetto flat/cold and numb/I heard the rats tell the bedbugs/to give the roaches some/And everybody wants to know/Why I sing the blues.” I cannot help but think of Fats Domino and controversies of white artists popularizing cover songs when I hear Pat Boone’s rendition of “Ain’t That a Shame.”

Undeniably, black musicians produce some of the most popularly played songs on mainstream radio today and the most commonly seen videos on music television. Only Ray Charles dominated Kanye West at the 2005 Grammys. Destiny’s Child and Usher hold high spots on this week’s Top 20 on VH1.

Fame of today’s musicians oscillates drastically from day to day. What is more important is the understanding of how black artists of the past have been extremely prominent in defining our contemporary musical climate. Over the past two centuries, few ethnic groups have had such profound influence on the music industry and found themselves the rudimentary system of such a multitude of styles.

Consider rock and roll, a genre generally deficient in the physical representation of blacks. Abstractly, the presence could hardly be more profound. A style broadly considered more definitive of American music than any other, rock has its roots in the rhythm and blues. These sounds extracted elements of jazz forms developed during the Harlem Renaissance of the ’20s. They adopted early Southern blues played in the Mississippi Delta and Tennessee. Even gospel music sung in churches during the ’30s found its way into the melodies of the earliest rock and roll records of the ’50s.

From this came countless sub-genres and derivatives — anything from power pop to indie rock, heavy metal to punk rock. There is a lineage between the trumpet blasting of Louis Armstrong and the British invasion of the Beatles and the Rolling Stones. Follow the evolution of the blues played by Robert Johnson to the folk rock of Bob Dylan; continue to the grunge rock predecessor Neil Young that resulted in the alternative styles of Nirvana. The garage rock of the White Stripes can call Howlin’ Wolf and Muddy Waters ancestors. The connections are as varied as they are incontestable.

History constantly whispers in our ears — if we could only take a few moments to actually listen. In addition to the firm foundations black music built for today’s vast collections of sounds and samples, consider the lyrical groundwork. Downhearted blues songs introduced the wailing emotions. Expressions of rough and tumble relationships resonated throughout jazz tunes. Dashboard Confessional’s emo music might not articulate the same vulnerability had Ella Fitzgerald not been so candid in her singing. Kanye West’s “Jesus Walks” may not have been so prophetic without the remembrance of the slave spiritual.

The lyrical style of rhythm and blues songs was blatantly honest. For the time, some considered lines offensive to the point that those covering them during the ’50s often had to create clean versions. This set the stage for hundreds of artists to capitalize on their own take on reality afterward.

Sex and drugs, joy or pain: the theme mattered little compared to the ability to share an understanding, a truly authentic feeling. And with that came an amazing manifestation of the social conscience in music. Marvin Gaye could sing “What’s Going On.” Outkast could lay down their personal hip-hop commentary with “Rosa Parks.” Ani DiFranco could produce her entire discography of feminist ideals and fierce political views.

While February is coming to a close, I find no reason to put aside such histories. Every song has a story. It may initially seem to only be superficial and perhaps it insists on remaining so after a few listens. But a majority of songs spring from a rich background that tells of more than music in isolation.

As we listen to our tunes in the seclusion of study or the solitude of walking, perhaps we can take a few moments to actually hear the memory of the words, to feel the past of the rhythms. In recognizing the impact, we can honor the history. And in doing so, experience an everyday celebration of whomever created those sounds.