When Chicago musician KAMI took his album Just Like the Movies to a streaming service earlier this year, they suggested slotting him on one of their alt-rap playlists. This concerned him slightly. It’s not that he doesn’t rap on the album, but the absence of other genre considerations made him wonder that age-old question: “Is it because I’m black?” As suggested by its title, Just Like the Movies is built around cinematic sounds, largely synth-driven ’80s rock. It’s more in line with the grunge pop of Season, the debut from his duo with Joey Purp, Leather Corduroys, than the hip-hop of his fellow SaveMoney members, like Chance the Rapper.

Likewise, Sumney has turned down certain gigs and opportunities that sought to classify him as “urban” music—not because he’s “too good for that,” but because he doesn’t want to confuse listeners. “I’m not trying to be different or exceptional, and I never want to be at a point where I’m like, ‘I’m so special I can’t make music like [what’s on urban radio],’” he says. “But one thing I am learning is that genre is still relevant to people who run companies, and they still have power when it comes to music. The ability of a company to define genre is an exercise in power, and power is inextricably tied to economics. When we limit minorities and define these things for them, we’re talking about taking away economic power. If someone goes looking for a folk artist or an experimental artist and doesn’t see these black artists, that’s a dollar taken from their pocket. That’s a ticket they may not get to sell.”

If artists don’t make these distinctions early on, they leave it up to those who see melanin before anything else. Many find themselves relegated to “urban” genres whether that’s the music they intend to make or not. “You have to start in R&B or hip-hop and only then can you cross over into pop culture,” says Richard. “If you go at it any other way, you’re either trying too hard or it’s not going to work because it doesn’t seem true to who you are. We’ve gotten so used to that format being thrust upon us from journalists or from society that we’ve now become stuck on the idea that you—as a black woman, especially—can only win if you start where you look like you belong and then branch out.”

This reinforcement of identity through genres trickles down to listeners, too. Much like seeing wealthy black faces hooping can inspire black kids to dream of becoming a basketball player instead of a doctor, seeing black musicians acquire wealth mainly through hip-hop might nudge teens in that direction, too. “Black kids do probably end up making more hip-hop because they think they have to,” KAMI says. “You don’t see them kind of trying to steer past that.” It’s like checking a box for white, black, or other, he adds: “You want to check that ‘other’ box, but you don’t know how that will represent you.”

That artists must micromanage expectations based on their blackness is dismal, and it is part of the burden that all minorities must bear. But those within the music industry at large have a responsibility to not make musical assumptions based on skin tone. If we aren’t both inclusive and intentional in our actions and our language, we risk further isolating black artists and listeners on the fringes. When we fail in this regard, we inadvertently strip away black artists’ multitudes and agency. We limit the creative potential of all music with our inability to truly hear an artist instead of just see them. And we uphold a history that prizes black contributions only when they align with larger notions of blackness.

“Regardless of whether people want to admit it,” Richard says, “the reality is we are here, and we fit in so many things.”