Please check out my latest article "The Dozens - Trump For Dummies" from First Of The Month.
Showing posts with label richard torres. Show all posts
Showing posts with label richard torres. Show all posts
November 30, 2017
June 6, 2016
The Greatest Gone...(Ali in Four Movements)
Please check out my latest article for First Of The Month - "The Greatest Gone...(Ali in Four Movements)" - about the late Muhammad Ali and his impact on my life.
April 29, 2016
Sometimes It Snows In April
Please check out my latest article "Sometimes It Snows In April" about the late, great artist Prince in the recently revamped First Of The Month website!
April 3, 2016
February 22, 2016
Street Life...and Death
Please check out my latest article "Street Life...and Death" which reviews the acclaimed book "Ghettoside" as well as discussing growing up in 1970's New York City in the new, revamped First Of The Month website!
December 11, 2015
Pimpology
Please check out in the newly revamped "First of the Month" website my latest article "Pimpology" about Iceberg Slim and his ilk: http://www.firstofthemonth.
January 24, 2014
She'll Take You There
Please check out my latest NPR book review of the Dave Kot-penned Mavis Staples biography: "I'll Take You There: Mavis Staples, The Staple Singers, And The March Up Freedom's Highway" at www.npr.org/2014/01/22/264560565/new-mavis-staples-biography-will-take-you-there.
October 14, 2013
The Mambo King Says Goodbye
It was an impulse buy.
The year was 1989 and I was walking through Barnes & Noble when I saw the title: The Mambo Kings Play Songs Of Love. The writer was Oscar Hijuelos. As the scion of a family of mamboniks and salseros, I was immediately intrigued. So I pulled the money out of the wallet and bought the book. I started reading it on the subway and didn't put it down until I'd finished it early the following morn. It was a novel of uncommon passion as it dealt with the complexities of lost loves. It was also the rare book to capture the joy of dancing, playing and listening to Latin music. Hijuelos' words - at times - literally sang to this reader. And judging by the success The Mambo Kings had, many others felt the same way as well.
In 1990, Hijuelos became the first Latino writer to win the Pulitzer for fiction. It turned out to be for Hijuelos - who died this past Saturday at the age of 62 - his career highpoint. A few uneven novels followed along with a disappointing 1992 screen adaptation starring - no joke - an extremely miscast Armand Assante. (If memory serves, there was also a flop Broadway show.)
No matter. Hijuelos left the book-reading public one masterpiece and gave this writer in particular the inspiration to pen his own stories. Here's hoping that in the hereafter, he is - like every Mambo King does at the end of a performance - taking a well-deserved bow.
The year was 1989 and I was walking through Barnes & Noble when I saw the title: The Mambo Kings Play Songs Of Love. The writer was Oscar Hijuelos. As the scion of a family of mamboniks and salseros, I was immediately intrigued. So I pulled the money out of the wallet and bought the book. I started reading it on the subway and didn't put it down until I'd finished it early the following morn. It was a novel of uncommon passion as it dealt with the complexities of lost loves. It was also the rare book to capture the joy of dancing, playing and listening to Latin music. Hijuelos' words - at times - literally sang to this reader. And judging by the success The Mambo Kings had, many others felt the same way as well.
In 1990, Hijuelos became the first Latino writer to win the Pulitzer for fiction. It turned out to be for Hijuelos - who died this past Saturday at the age of 62 - his career highpoint. A few uneven novels followed along with a disappointing 1992 screen adaptation starring - no joke - an extremely miscast Armand Assante. (If memory serves, there was also a flop Broadway show.)
No matter. Hijuelos left the book-reading public one masterpiece and gave this writer in particular the inspiration to pen his own stories. Here's hoping that in the hereafter, he is - like every Mambo King does at the end of a performance - taking a well-deserved bow.
July 16, 2013
Just Us
“You go down there looking for justice that’s what you find: just us,” Richard Pryor.
For a man of color, life in America oft feels like a frightening rollercoaster ride with dangerous traps awaiting you on every hairpin turn. One thing that is made clear at an excruciatingly early age is that because of color, because of race, not only are you different but you will be treated accordingly. And so you grow up being condescended to in conversations, followed in stores, treated with minimal – if any – respect at work and so on. Just because of the hue of your skin or the broadness of your nose or the fullness of your lips, your day-to-day actions will come under greater scrutiny. You are living life under a suspicious societal microscope and caution is not only suggested but for survival’s sake it’s expected. So you develop a hardened shell as much to maintain your sanity as to ward off any external trouble. 'Don’t mess with me, I won’t mess with you' becomes your credo. And you become content with the tiniest of triumphs. All I want to do is get through the day, you tell yourself. And then in the evening you think that all I want to do is live to see tomorrow’s dawn. When you’re a man of color in America, you believe that each breath you take is a victory.
And when that gift of life is snatched away from another person of color, you acutely – almost disproportionately - feel the pain of that loss. In most of those cases, you shake your head about the senseless loss. Sometimes, you even think how that could have been you. But you try not to linger over such thoughts. After all, there’s enough ache in your life. Why invite more hurt into your heart? So you compartmentalize and move on.
Then one day you hear about a 17 year old Black young man, a child named Trayvon Martin, who trying to return to his dad’s home in Sanford, Florida after a snack run is shot and killed because a White neighborhood watch guy – 29 year old George Zimmerman - deemed him suspicious, followed him and, against police advice, confronted him and all the emotions you’ve kept bottled up – a Pandora’s box of tangled, raw feelings – come flooding back. You think of assorted racial confrontations you had at that age. You think how you never once worried about being shot during any of those incidents. You thank God for growing up in a time when guns weren’t as plentiful. Then you think that if you had a son he’d look like Trayvon. A few days later you hear the President – the country’s first African-American commander-in-chief – say the same thing. For some reason, you take this as a good sign so you decide to follow the trial.
When you’re a person of color in America, the decision to follow a trial like this one is not a cavalier one. All too well, you know the capriciousness of the American justice system. You’ve either personally gone through it or known somebody who has and the results usually range from deficient to disastrous. Yet, we keep getting emotionally invested in these types of trials. Like an abused spouse welcoming home her battering husband, we tell ourselves that this time will be different. Justice is blind, we say while forgetting that that sightless gaze is habitually turned in our direction. So you lie to yourself and insist that this time justice will be surely be served.
Then you hear the stalling tactics by the district attorneys as they debate whether or not to bring charges and you start to worry. You hear about the Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law and shudder. You hear the acronym WWB – Walking While Black – mentioned and shake your head in disbelief. You hear from Geraldo Rivera how Trayvon’s wearing a hoodie contributed to his death. You hear the police tape where Zimmerman profanely describes Trayvon walking through his neighborhood before ignoring their pleas to stay put. You hear about how the arriving police cordially and respectfully greeted Zimmerman, the son of a former judge, just a few feet away from Trayvon’s still warm corpse. Then you think that a person of color would have been cuffed on the spot. You see the videotape of Zimmerman going into the police station later that evening and wonder where are the visual signs of all of these injuries he claimed Trayvon inflicted upon him. You hear about the financial war chest Zimmerman is accruing for his defense. You are told that the jury is made up of all females: five White and one Hispanic. You wonder what you are supposed to make out of such information.
You see Trayvon Martin’s parents and know that you could never demonstrate that much class and calm under such tragic circumstances.
Then the trial begins and you immediately notice the prosecution hasn’t brought their A game. You find yourself yelling at the television about unasked questions and obvious follow-ups. You see Travyon’s friend Rachel Jeantel – the one he was speaking to on the phone while Zimmerman followed him – and share her frustration at both the prosecution and defense. Then you later see Jeantel being unfairly vilified on social media by both Black & White folks for her supposed lack of sophistication and erudition. You think about how she literally heard her friend being murdered and wonder how folks can be so cruel with their criticism. Then you realize that Jeantel is a victim of the most common American prejudice: the bigotry of class. Her sin – in the eyes of many of the trial’s onlookers – was in being Black and poor. What she said may not have been purty but her pain – if you cared to listen – spoke volumes.
You watch the defense do what you expected: trash Trayvon. They show scary, blurry photos of Trayvon while putting on the witness stand neighbors who talked about burglaries in the neighborhood committed by African-American men. (Immediately, carrying such a theory to a logical conclusion, you wonder if President Obama, Will Smith, Prince and Clarence Thomas would also be stopped by George Zimmerman.) You hear the screams on the tape and watch both Trayvon’s mother and Zimmerman’s mother claim the screams belong to their child. For you, the answer is easy. Unfortunately, you’ve heard enough pained screams in your lifetime to know the difference between a child’s yell and that of an adult’s. Then you realize you just heard the death scream of a child and your soul throbs again.
Then the trial wraps up and the wait begins. You see Geraldo Rivera claim that the women on the jury would have shot and killed Trayvon a lot sooner than George Zimmerman did. You read social media and see the same phrase over and over again used by people of color: ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ Surprisingly, you don’t. You figure that if Zimmerman isn’t convicted of the top charge of second-degree murder surely he’ll go away for manslaughter. You can’t just kill an unarmed child who you stalked and get away with it, right?
Wrong.
You get a call from a friend on a Saturday night. (A White friend, if it matters.) He sounds angry, disconsolate. He tells you the verdict is in. Not guilty. You’re shocked. While still holding the phone, you quickly put on the television. You see a replay of the verdict being read. The first thing you notice is the unnerving calm of the defendant Zimmerman. This is a man with his entire life riding on this verdict. You would think he would be nervous but he was confidently stoic. It was as if he already knew the favorable outcome and the reading of the verdict was a mere formality. Not guilty. You notice that the second charge – manslaughter – wasn’t even read aloud by the court. Why waste the breath? The not guilty statement covered everything.
Then you watch Zimmerman smile as the defense team hugged Zimmerman’s family. You recognize that smug smile. It’s a smile of pride. “The son of a bitch is proud of what he did,” you tell your friend. “Yep,” he agrees. You talk for a while then you excuse yourself to watch the press conferences. The prosecution – unsurprisingly - comes across as bumbling buffoons straight out of a Three Stooges slapstick short subject. Except there wasn’t a single laugh to be had here: just pain and sorrow.
The prosecution was followed by the defense team: Mark O’Meara and Don West. As distasteful as their trial strategy was, you understood they had to vigorously defend their client. But at the press conference, instead taking the high road, they instead decided to take a victory lap around Trayvon Martin’s dead body. You watch them insist that Zimmerman was the aggrieved party here and that if he were Black, he would not have even been charged. You clench your fists and now understand why Trayvon’s parents didn’t attend the sentencing. It would have been like watching their child get murdered yet again.
You spend the next few days watching the Sunday talking heads play Monday morning quarterback with the case. It shouldn’t have been brought, they say. Don’t blame the jury, they insist. They were just trying the evidence in front of them. The verdict was the only possible one considering the weakness of the prosecution’s case. The case had nothing to do with the ‘stand your ground’ law. (Although the law had been brought up during the jury selection process.) The case had nothing to do with race. This was about self-defense. Period.
Then you later watch Juror B37 – ironically cloaked in darkness to conceal her identity - talk about how she believes Zimmerman’s learned his lesson and how she would feel comfortable having him on a neighborhood watch. You are horrified as you realize Geraldo Rivera was right. You are disgusted when you find out that Juror B37 has signed a book deal to tell about the jury deliberations. Money made off of the blood of a dead Black child.
You turn off the television and seethe. This is the truth as you see it. An African-American young man was racially profiled by a cop wannabe - a judge’s son who only called the police whenever he saw a Black man walking in his neighborhood – followed by him, confronted by him, murdered by him then freed. (In effect, giving a White vigilante the same rights to use deadly force as an officer of the law.) To claim that he was found not guilty because of a jury’s ‘reasonable doubt’ is a canard. As people of color know all too well, many of us have been convicted of much more with far less evidence. It is when we are the victims – and, especially, when Whites are the accused – that the burden of proof shifts. In life in well as in death, people of color are guilty until proven innocent and the shield of reasonable doubt leads to verdicts of unreasonable heartbreak.
In a month when the majority of headlines concerned a female television cook’s use of the ‘N’ word, you have seen the Supreme Court emasculate the Voting Rights Act, the Mayor of New York City defend his stop-and-frisk policy by insisting we don’t stop enough Black & Latinos while stopping too many Whites and a child killer go free. Trayvon Martin wasn’t old enough to go to a bar and in some states, to drive. He wasn’t old enough to serve our country in the military. Perhaps, most importantly, he wasn’t old enough to vote. But his life, his existence mattered and - despite it being snuffed out so tragically – it’s up to us to affirm it in a way that goes beyond memorial T-shirts, wall murals and protests. T-shirts fray, murals fade and crowds disperse as the cause behind them is too-often forgotten. That is until the next tragedy. Not this time. Please not this time. It is time to stand our ground – stand tall on our high, moral ground – to gather emotional, spiritual strength and then politically mobilize to end this madness. Let the murder of Trayvon Martin be the catalyst for true change in this country. For it is only through real action that we can still the sounds of his screams.
For a man of color, life in America oft feels like a frightening rollercoaster ride with dangerous traps awaiting you on every hairpin turn. One thing that is made clear at an excruciatingly early age is that because of color, because of race, not only are you different but you will be treated accordingly. And so you grow up being condescended to in conversations, followed in stores, treated with minimal – if any – respect at work and so on. Just because of the hue of your skin or the broadness of your nose or the fullness of your lips, your day-to-day actions will come under greater scrutiny. You are living life under a suspicious societal microscope and caution is not only suggested but for survival’s sake it’s expected. So you develop a hardened shell as much to maintain your sanity as to ward off any external trouble. 'Don’t mess with me, I won’t mess with you' becomes your credo. And you become content with the tiniest of triumphs. All I want to do is get through the day, you tell yourself. And then in the evening you think that all I want to do is live to see tomorrow’s dawn. When you’re a man of color in America, you believe that each breath you take is a victory.
And when that gift of life is snatched away from another person of color, you acutely – almost disproportionately - feel the pain of that loss. In most of those cases, you shake your head about the senseless loss. Sometimes, you even think how that could have been you. But you try not to linger over such thoughts. After all, there’s enough ache in your life. Why invite more hurt into your heart? So you compartmentalize and move on.
Then one day you hear about a 17 year old Black young man, a child named Trayvon Martin, who trying to return to his dad’s home in Sanford, Florida after a snack run is shot and killed because a White neighborhood watch guy – 29 year old George Zimmerman - deemed him suspicious, followed him and, against police advice, confronted him and all the emotions you’ve kept bottled up – a Pandora’s box of tangled, raw feelings – come flooding back. You think of assorted racial confrontations you had at that age. You think how you never once worried about being shot during any of those incidents. You thank God for growing up in a time when guns weren’t as plentiful. Then you think that if you had a son he’d look like Trayvon. A few days later you hear the President – the country’s first African-American commander-in-chief – say the same thing. For some reason, you take this as a good sign so you decide to follow the trial.
When you’re a person of color in America, the decision to follow a trial like this one is not a cavalier one. All too well, you know the capriciousness of the American justice system. You’ve either personally gone through it or known somebody who has and the results usually range from deficient to disastrous. Yet, we keep getting emotionally invested in these types of trials. Like an abused spouse welcoming home her battering husband, we tell ourselves that this time will be different. Justice is blind, we say while forgetting that that sightless gaze is habitually turned in our direction. So you lie to yourself and insist that this time justice will be surely be served.
Then you hear the stalling tactics by the district attorneys as they debate whether or not to bring charges and you start to worry. You hear about the Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law and shudder. You hear the acronym WWB – Walking While Black – mentioned and shake your head in disbelief. You hear from Geraldo Rivera how Trayvon’s wearing a hoodie contributed to his death. You hear the police tape where Zimmerman profanely describes Trayvon walking through his neighborhood before ignoring their pleas to stay put. You hear about how the arriving police cordially and respectfully greeted Zimmerman, the son of a former judge, just a few feet away from Trayvon’s still warm corpse. Then you think that a person of color would have been cuffed on the spot. You see the videotape of Zimmerman going into the police station later that evening and wonder where are the visual signs of all of these injuries he claimed Trayvon inflicted upon him. You hear about the financial war chest Zimmerman is accruing for his defense. You are told that the jury is made up of all females: five White and one Hispanic. You wonder what you are supposed to make out of such information.
You see Trayvon Martin’s parents and know that you could never demonstrate that much class and calm under such tragic circumstances.
Then the trial begins and you immediately notice the prosecution hasn’t brought their A game. You find yourself yelling at the television about unasked questions and obvious follow-ups. You see Travyon’s friend Rachel Jeantel – the one he was speaking to on the phone while Zimmerman followed him – and share her frustration at both the prosecution and defense. Then you later see Jeantel being unfairly vilified on social media by both Black & White folks for her supposed lack of sophistication and erudition. You think about how she literally heard her friend being murdered and wonder how folks can be so cruel with their criticism. Then you realize that Jeantel is a victim of the most common American prejudice: the bigotry of class. Her sin – in the eyes of many of the trial’s onlookers – was in being Black and poor. What she said may not have been purty but her pain – if you cared to listen – spoke volumes.
You watch the defense do what you expected: trash Trayvon. They show scary, blurry photos of Trayvon while putting on the witness stand neighbors who talked about burglaries in the neighborhood committed by African-American men. (Immediately, carrying such a theory to a logical conclusion, you wonder if President Obama, Will Smith, Prince and Clarence Thomas would also be stopped by George Zimmerman.) You hear the screams on the tape and watch both Trayvon’s mother and Zimmerman’s mother claim the screams belong to their child. For you, the answer is easy. Unfortunately, you’ve heard enough pained screams in your lifetime to know the difference between a child’s yell and that of an adult’s. Then you realize you just heard the death scream of a child and your soul throbs again.
Then the trial wraps up and the wait begins. You see Geraldo Rivera claim that the women on the jury would have shot and killed Trayvon a lot sooner than George Zimmerman did. You read social media and see the same phrase over and over again used by people of color: ‘I’ve got a bad feeling about this.’ Surprisingly, you don’t. You figure that if Zimmerman isn’t convicted of the top charge of second-degree murder surely he’ll go away for manslaughter. You can’t just kill an unarmed child who you stalked and get away with it, right?
Wrong.
You get a call from a friend on a Saturday night. (A White friend, if it matters.) He sounds angry, disconsolate. He tells you the verdict is in. Not guilty. You’re shocked. While still holding the phone, you quickly put on the television. You see a replay of the verdict being read. The first thing you notice is the unnerving calm of the defendant Zimmerman. This is a man with his entire life riding on this verdict. You would think he would be nervous but he was confidently stoic. It was as if he already knew the favorable outcome and the reading of the verdict was a mere formality. Not guilty. You notice that the second charge – manslaughter – wasn’t even read aloud by the court. Why waste the breath? The not guilty statement covered everything.
Then you watch Zimmerman smile as the defense team hugged Zimmerman’s family. You recognize that smug smile. It’s a smile of pride. “The son of a bitch is proud of what he did,” you tell your friend. “Yep,” he agrees. You talk for a while then you excuse yourself to watch the press conferences. The prosecution – unsurprisingly - comes across as bumbling buffoons straight out of a Three Stooges slapstick short subject. Except there wasn’t a single laugh to be had here: just pain and sorrow.
The prosecution was followed by the defense team: Mark O’Meara and Don West. As distasteful as their trial strategy was, you understood they had to vigorously defend their client. But at the press conference, instead taking the high road, they instead decided to take a victory lap around Trayvon Martin’s dead body. You watch them insist that Zimmerman was the aggrieved party here and that if he were Black, he would not have even been charged. You clench your fists and now understand why Trayvon’s parents didn’t attend the sentencing. It would have been like watching their child get murdered yet again.
You spend the next few days watching the Sunday talking heads play Monday morning quarterback with the case. It shouldn’t have been brought, they say. Don’t blame the jury, they insist. They were just trying the evidence in front of them. The verdict was the only possible one considering the weakness of the prosecution’s case. The case had nothing to do with the ‘stand your ground’ law. (Although the law had been brought up during the jury selection process.) The case had nothing to do with race. This was about self-defense. Period.
Then you later watch Juror B37 – ironically cloaked in darkness to conceal her identity - talk about how she believes Zimmerman’s learned his lesson and how she would feel comfortable having him on a neighborhood watch. You are horrified as you realize Geraldo Rivera was right. You are disgusted when you find out that Juror B37 has signed a book deal to tell about the jury deliberations. Money made off of the blood of a dead Black child.
You turn off the television and seethe. This is the truth as you see it. An African-American young man was racially profiled by a cop wannabe - a judge’s son who only called the police whenever he saw a Black man walking in his neighborhood – followed by him, confronted by him, murdered by him then freed. (In effect, giving a White vigilante the same rights to use deadly force as an officer of the law.) To claim that he was found not guilty because of a jury’s ‘reasonable doubt’ is a canard. As people of color know all too well, many of us have been convicted of much more with far less evidence. It is when we are the victims – and, especially, when Whites are the accused – that the burden of proof shifts. In life in well as in death, people of color are guilty until proven innocent and the shield of reasonable doubt leads to verdicts of unreasonable heartbreak.
In a month when the majority of headlines concerned a female television cook’s use of the ‘N’ word, you have seen the Supreme Court emasculate the Voting Rights Act, the Mayor of New York City defend his stop-and-frisk policy by insisting we don’t stop enough Black & Latinos while stopping too many Whites and a child killer go free. Trayvon Martin wasn’t old enough to go to a bar and in some states, to drive. He wasn’t old enough to serve our country in the military. Perhaps, most importantly, he wasn’t old enough to vote. But his life, his existence mattered and - despite it being snuffed out so tragically – it’s up to us to affirm it in a way that goes beyond memorial T-shirts, wall murals and protests. T-shirts fray, murals fade and crowds disperse as the cause behind them is too-often forgotten. That is until the next tragedy. Not this time. Please not this time. It is time to stand our ground – stand tall on our high, moral ground – to gather emotional, spiritual strength and then politically mobilize to end this madness. Let the murder of Trayvon Martin be the catalyst for true change in this country. For it is only through real action that we can still the sounds of his screams.
April 11, 2013
Accidental Racist
Ten observations about the Brad Paisley – LL Cool J song “Accidental Racist.”
1) Easily the strangest buddy pairing since Anthony Hopkins and Chris Rock graced our movie screens with the aptly-titled "Bad Company."
2) Paisley sings that ‘it’s not like you and me can rewrite history’ then he and LL proceed to do just that.
3) It sounds like a discarded SNL skit from the ‘80s starring Joe Piscopo and Eddie Murphy as Buckwheat. Accent on the word ‘discarded.’
4) The ‘If you don’t judge my gold chains/I’ll forget the iron chains’ couplet. Maybe you will, LL, but I assure you no one will forget you saying these lines and let ‘bygones be bygones.’
5) If this song had come out six months ago, I guarantee you it would have made the “Django Unchained” soundtrack only Tarantino would have played it for laughs.
6) Exactly what school did these two learn their history from? The School Of Rock
7) ‘R.I.P. Robert E. Lee’? Really? Or should I say Real E. Lee?
8) Who would have thought the Nelly/Tim McGraw duet would remain the “What’s Going On” of country/rap collaborations?
9) Beware of any song that begins with a revelation about race at a Starbucks.
10) The song ends with the following lines: ‘It’s real. It’s real. It’s truth.’ Reality? It’s not. It’s not. It lies.
February 22, 2013
2012
(The following post was first published by First Of The Month – www.firstofthemonth.org – on December 2012.)
It was Election Day morning, a week and a day after Hurricane Sandy had wreaked havoc on the tri-state area – seventy-two hours since my home’s electrical power had been restored - and there was what the local television forecasters called an “unseasonable” chill in the Canarsie, Brooklyn air. November nippiness or not, there was work to be done. Important work. After all, there was a Presidential election today.
I put on my heavy denim jacket and walked to my local polling place – the place where I have voted my entire adult life – the public school across the street from my house. As I’ve done for decades, I opened the school doors and followed the posted signs with the big, black arrows on them to the cafeteria.
This time – for the first time - I walked in to a madhouse. A plethora of disjointed lines with dissatisfied folk were demanding answers. I went up to a woman with a badge and asked her which was my voting line. She pointed to the line nearest to me. I got on it and, over a half-hour later, spoke to another woman seated behind a picnic table. She asked for my address and name. I gave it and stood silently while she rifled through a large book full of names and addresses. Unfortunately, mine was not among them. She then referred me to another table in the far corner. I went there only to discover another thirty minutes later the folks at that table didn’t have my information either.
Onward if not upward, I was sent to another table. This one was located catty-corner from the first one I’d been to and again, I relayed my information. The woman at this table looked in another huge book, did not find my name and address, excused herself and came back with another large tome. She asked me to repeat my address again. I did. I watched over her right shoulder as her right index finger slowly scanned the page in front of us. Then it stopped on a number and she looked up at me to inform me that my polling place had been moved some six blocks away to the middle of the Breukelen Projects.
“That’s crazy,” I responded, “I live right across the street and I’ve voted here my whole life.” I also told her that I hadn’t been given any written notification concerning such a move. So, I asked, how could such a thing happen? She then lowered her voice. “It is crazy,” she said. “It’s almost like they’re trying to discourage people from voting.” She then grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled down an address. “Please, please, please, promise me that you’ll go here to vote,” she implored. “It’s important that you do.” As I took the paper from her hand, an older woman turned to me and spoke. “I live in the projects ten blocks away and they told me over there that I had to come here and vote. It’s ridiculous what they’ve doing. Ridiculous.” I nodded and left.
Now, a smidgen of regional history. The Breukelen – pronounced by neighborhood denizens as Brook-line – projects is considered by many local residents as a bit rough. Hence, its nickname of Crook-line, a sobriquet designed to create fear in some and a sense of class superiority in many of its bordering homeowners. Regardless, it is without a doubt a most curious choice to send redistricted voters. My response? I just buttoned up my jacket to the top and walked to the address I had been given: a community center smack dab in the – where else? - center of the projects.
In front of her was a middle-aged couple who had turned out for the turn-out. The woman was wearing a brown leather coat cinched with a belt tied tightly around her waist. Her hair seemed to have been recently coiffed because she kept patting the air around it with cupped hands as if she wanted to touch it but remembered in mid-pat not to do so.
The man had on a black leather peacoat, black Nikes with sandy brown shoelaces, a sandy brown track suit - the jacket zipped halfway up his chest - made of velveteen and a canary-yellow turtleneck. He was rocking black sunglasses and a black leather fedora which had on the left side a series of rhinestones that spelled out in capital letters: OBAMA.
In front of them was an elderly lady who was engaged in spirited conversation with two equally aged – male and female – poll workers. I glanced to my right behind me. A long line was beginning to form. (Must be a whole lot of M through Z’s in my ‘hood, I thought) Behind them were six privacy booths where people were filling out their ballots. I looked left. There was a young brother showing those with finished ballots how to run them through the scanners.
Coming from the scanners, having just finished the process was a heavy-set Latina Latina
A twenty-ish young lady in a grey leather jacket and grey kerchief on her head came into the room and made her way to the teenager in front of me. The teen – for the first time since I’d been behind her - took her eyes off of her phone and said hello to the slightly older woman.
“Shit is crazy,” her friend said in response as she began to rattle off tales of the trouble people were having in the neighborhood trying to vote. “That’s why I came here first thing this morning and insisted you come,” she concluded. “I’m here,” the teen said quietly as the A through L finally began to fill up next to us. “You should be here,” her friend responded with a correcting tone, “this is important shit. They’ve trying to steal this election and we can’t let that shit happen.” As she finished her sentence, the middle aged couple passed us with their ballots.
The two elderly poll workers then called the teen to the table. The teen paused and took a deep breath. Her friend gave her a comforting pat/shove in the back and pushed her towards the table. “You’ve got to forgive me,” she said, “this is my first time voting.” The poll workers smiled. “Nothing to worry about,” said the woman. “Just take your time,” said the man.
As she stepped forward, a slight commotion appeared to break out in the A to L line. A man in the back of the line began to complain that an elderly lady clutching a walker had cut to the front. “But I’m old,” she said in a weak voice, “I can’t stand for long.” The man in the back of the line began to respond until a young tall brother in the front, stepped out of the line, took a step towards him and spoke. “I let go her in front of me,” he said. Then he thumped his chest with his right hand for emphasis. “Me,” he repeated. Then he turned to the elderly lady and with his left hand cradled her right elbow. “Just take your time,” he softly told her as a slight smile came over her face, “you just take your time.”
The Hoodie
(The following piece was originally published by First Of The Month – www.firstofthemonth.org – on April 2012.)
A fox tail dangling from a leather belt. A key chain dangling from a leather belt. A leather belt with a personalized name buckle. Low top red Converse sneakers. High-top black Converse sneakers. Green suede Puma sneakers. Clamshell white Adidas sneakers. White Nike basketball athletic footwear. Blue chinos with the orange stripe running down the side. Black “overlap” slacks with two overlapping seams running down the side. Black “AJ’s” slacks with white thread running down the side. Denim jackets with the sleeves cut off. Leather vests worn without a shirt. Leather motorcycle jackets. Leather blazers. Leather pea coats. Leather bomber jackets. North Face jackets. Shearling jackets. Black Bally boots with a Cuban heels. Army jackets. Combat boots. Doc Martens. Black baseball caps with the letter X emblazoned on them. Black caps and jackets featuring the logo of the Oakland Raiders. Hockey jerseys. Baseball jerseys. “Throwback” basketball jerseys. Starter jackets. Gold chains. Floppy denim hats. Tan Timberland work boots.
Hoodies.
The preceding was a roll-call of clothing items that during my lifetime have been identified by the mainstream media as criminal attire. Anyone wearing this garb, the powers-that-be informed the populace, was sending out a signal that they were ‘up to no good’ and were soon going to commit a felonious act. (It’s an argument designed to bolster police “stop-and-frisk” policies.) Of course, the fact that this apparel was primarily worn by Latino and African-American youth – who began many of the aforementioned fashion trends – served to bolster their supposition. After all, what ethnic groups do we see on television being arrested and arraigned on a nightly basis?
Then came the killing of 17 year-old Trayvon Martin by 28 year-old George Zimmerman in Sanford , Florida
This dreadful event has for a multitude of valid reasons – race, vigilantism, the initial bungling of the case by the Sanford police department, the constitutionality of Florida’s “Stand Your Ground” law among them – gotten considerable national attention. As many folk of color have noted, there are, unfortunately, Trayvon-like tragedies in their communities on a regular basis. This is, therefore, that rare opportunity to discuss them while also seeking to see justice served. All of this, again, part of a valid and necessary dialogue.
Then came Geraldo.
Soon after the Trayvon Martin case began to break nationally, Geraldo Rivera – according to a transcript posted online – said this on his home network Fox News: ‘I’ll bet you money, if he didn’t have that hoodie on, that nutty neighborhood guy wouldn’t have responded in that violent and aggressive way.”
In the world-according-to-Geraldo, half of the problem with today’s world is the way young men dress. As the 68 year-old Rivera pointed out, hoodies have been worn by – and I am paraphrasing - by everyone that has ever stuck up a convenience store and such notorious criminals as D.B. Cooper and the Unabomber.
Rivera’s outrageous and, I suspect, calculated comments predictably caused a firestorm which then led him to a series of semi-apologies first to outraged viewers then finally to the bereaved Martin family themselves. But one thing had been accomplished. Geraldo Rivera had captured the nation’s attention once more. For a short time, he had become the story.
This may be hard for some people to believe – especially those who remember him from the live The Mystery Of Al Capone’s Vault debacle in the mid-80’s - but there was a time when Geraldo Rivera was considered to be a serious journalist. In the early ‘70’s – after a stint as an attorney who had been affiliated with the progressive Latino organization The Young Lords – Rivera joined New York City Staten Island hellhole known as the Willowbrook State School
By the mid-70s, Rivera had graduated to a late-night ABC show entitled Good Night America where along with celebrity interviews; he aired the first look at the Zapruder footage of the John F. Kennedy assassination. But after a few network battles, Rivera left ABC and by the mid-80s was hosting the high–rated syndicated Al Capone special where millions of viewers found out that after two hours of Rivera’s purple-prose build-up that the Capone vaults contained ……nothing. (A metaphor of Rivera’s career if ever there was one.)
Soon after that Rivera went over – in Jedi-speak – to the dark side. He hosted a contentious daily talk show entitled – what else? – The Geraldo Rivera Show where the highlight in a decade-long run was the host getting his nose broken by a flying chair thrown by a white supremacist during a brawl. There was a half-hour nightly program Now It Can Be Told which presaged the modern predilection of television tabloid journalism and his cable show Rivera Live which devolved into a circus during the year-long O.J. Simpson trial. (Although, there was a memorable postscript where a stunned Rivera, doing a live remote from a Washington D.C. African-American church whose parishioners had held a fundraiser to support the acquitted Simpson, ended up being repeatedly and wittily lambasted by the congregation) After being denied the opportunity to cover the Iraq War by his NBC bosses, Rivera bolted for Fox News where he has remained ever since.
The unfortunate arc of Rivera’s career has even been more magnified in the last few months because of the deaths of two great television journalists: 80 year-old Gil Noble and 93 year-old Mike Wallace. Noble had since 1967 been the host of Like It Is arguably the most influential African-American program ever broadcast. Through Like It Is, Noble had provided a forum for political folk from Stokely Carmichael to Al Sharpton; celebrities from Harry Belafonte to Sammy Davis Jr., historians, poets, artists and produced outstanding documentaries on both Malcolm X and Martin Luther King while all the time maintaining a delicate journalistic balance of asking his guests tough, fair questions. Wallace brought a bulldog tenacity to 60 Minutes grilling his subjects regardless of political affiliation and often cutting straight to the heart of the matter.
Rivera had the raw skills to be either Noble or Wallace but chose not to. Hell, he could have even been Dan Rather who’s another flamboyant reporter with a knack for injecting himself into the stories he’s covering. But where Rather and Rivera differ is Rather usually brings the viewer back to the tale being reported. He’s rarely bigger than the story. Not so, Rivera. He had to traduce the Travyon Martin tragedy to a ridiculous, even bigoted observation to garner attention. The funniest thing about all of this? This is from a man whose weekend television show on Fox News is entitled Geraldo At Large and who wrote a 1991 autobiography called Exposing Myself. Two titles which conjure up echoes of criminal behavior. I mean, who’s profiling who here?
February 1, 2012
The Don Is Dead
For so many of us, Soul Train was more than a weekly television show. It was our sole opportunity to not only see the artists we adored on both wax and the radio but to also witness kids our age - our contemporaries - groovin' and steppin' to the sounds we adored and the mainstream media ignored. The show influenced us so much that, to date, not a house party goes by without at least one attempt at a Soul Train line. And guiding us young-uns through this hippest trip in America was the coolest chaperone on air wearing tinted aviator glasses, tight double-knit suits, broad silk ties with the fattest Windsor knot extant and rockin' his majestic 'fro like Astaire did a top hat. God speed Don Cornelius....we wish you love, peace and....soul.
January 8, 2012
Things I Miss
With the onset of a new year, I decided to look back at things this Harlem-born, Brooklyn-bred scribe misses in my beloved Nueva York.
I miss double-features at the movies. Kung fu films and Italian westerns on the Deuce. Blaxploitation flicks at the Madison, the Kenmore and the Loews Gates. The horror and action bill at the Cosmo. First run movies in their second run at third prices at the Alpine, the Drake, the Midwood, the St. Mark’s, the 72nd Street East and the Essex. Revival films at the Regency, the Metro, the Thalia, the Bleecker Street Cinema and the New Yorker. Seeing widescreen epics at the Astor Plaza, the Loews State, the Warner, the Rivoli, the National and Radio City Music Hall. Checking out arty fare at the Baronet, the Coronet, the Tower East and the Sutton. Programs in the theatre lobby. The rush during intermission to the bathroom and the concession stand.
I miss Nedicks’ hot dogs with the square bun. Orangeade served in pointed paper cups and plastic holders. No frills diners with unlaminated menus and terrific food. The cheeseburgers at Woolworth’s. Malt shops. Newsstands that sold comic books, baseball cards and candy.
I miss department stores like Korvette’s, B. Altman’s, May’s, S. Klein, Gimbel’s, Alexander’s and Abraham & Straus. Shopping at record stores like Discomat, Jimmy’s Music World, Sam Goody’s and The Wiz. Meeting friends while browsing through the jazz section at Tower, HMV and Virgin.
I miss checking out shows at CBGB’s, Max’s Kansas City, the Savoy, the Palladium, the Ritz, Disco Fever and the Bottom Line. Dancing at the Garage, Bentley’s, the Saint, the World, the Underground, Area, Private Eyes, the Roxy, Danceteria, Club Broadway and the Corso. People dressed to the nines to go out dancing. Summer concerts at Central Park’s Wollman Rink. Block parties in El Barrio.
I miss Machito, La Lupe, Hector Lavoe, Celia Cruz and Tito Puente.
I miss transistor radios, boomboxes, walkmans and Discmans. LP’s, 45’s and 12” extended mixes. Listening to WABC, WNEW, WQEW, WWRL, WJIT, WBLS, 99X, WRVR and Disco 92 WKTU. Disc jockeys like Ron Lundy, Dan Ingram, Chuck Leonard, Les Davis, Paco, Ken “Spider” Webb, Lamarr Renee, Vy Higgensen, Al Roberts, Rosko, William B. Williams, Stan Martin and Frankie “Hollywood” Crocker.
I miss playing punchball, handball, stickball, running bases and skelly. Pick-up softball games. Clyde taking Jerry West apart at the top of the key, Earl the Pearl shaking Phil Chenier in the lane, Jerry Lucas’ rainbow bombs, Micheal Ray Richardson’s fearlessness during the game’s final minute and Bernard King soaring on the break. Marv Albert broadcasting Knick games and Marty Glickman doing the same for the Giants. The Mets’ Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner. Gary Thorne. Steve Zabriskie. Met Old-timers’ games. The Yankees’ Phil Rizzuto but only with Bill White. Bobby Murcer.
I miss listening to old Dodger, Giant and Yankee fans argue in a donut and coffee shop over which team had the best centerfielder. Watching Dave Kingman swing. Seeing Don Mattingly hit a line drive. Keith Hernandez fielding a bunt. John Stearns blocking the plate. The way the Met teams of the mid-‘80s.owned the town. Watching Mookie Wilson run and Dwight Gooden freeze an opposing batter with a curveball. Phil Simms and Joe Namath dropping back to uncork a throw. A LT pass rush. Harry Carson stuffing a running back. A Dave Jennings punt. Bavaro shedding would-be tacklers. Al Toon. Mark Messier guaranteeing a victory. Pat Riley smoothening out his suit. A Billy Martin glare. The ABA. Dr. J. in a Nets uniform.
I miss the Mets on Channel 9 and the Yankees on Channel 11. I miss Shea Stadium. Yankee Stadium, too.
I miss shopping at Canal Jeans and scouring the East Village for secondhand coats, surplus military raincoats and tuxedo jackets. Skinny leather ties. Levi’s denim jackets festooned with buttons, safety pins and patches.
I miss ¾ leather coats with a belt, bellbottoms, dashikis, platform shoes, Qiana shirts, suede Puma sneakers, applejack caps cocked to the side and folding afropicks. Pierre Cardin cologne and Hai Karate commercials. Toys like Secret Sam and Gnip Gnop. G.I. Joe’s with kung-fu grip and mini-afros.
I miss kid’s TV with hosts like Beachcomber Bob, Officer Joe Bolton, Soupy Sales, Sandy Becker, Sonny Fox, and Paul Winchell with Jerry Mahoney & Knucklehead Smiff. Bob McAllister on Wonderama and Mario Cantone on Steampipe Alley. Uncle Floyd. Willie Tyler & Lester. Schoolhouse Rock. Shazam and Isis. Far Out Space Nuts. Felix the Cat. Dick Tracy. Courageous Cat & Minute Mouse. The theme songs to all of the Marvel Superheroes cartoons.
I miss subway tokens and confusing transit maps that took forever to unfold. Monthly bus and subway passes from school. Waving to get the attention of the subway clerk before entering the station through the exit door. Trains with ripped leather and wicker seats and slowly revolving fans. New Yorkers getting angry when the fare hit 50 cents. Folks buying the Daily News in the morning and the Post in the afternoon. Riders reading paperback books.
I miss Eyewitness News with Roger Grimsby, Bill Beutel, Melba Tolliver, Anna Bond, John Johnson, Warner Wolf, Guy Lebow, Spencer Christian and, yes, the pre-Fox Geraldo Rivera. CBS News with Walter Cronkite, Eric Severeid, Dan Rather, Roger Mudd and Mike Wallace. Linda Ellerbee on NBC. Ted Koppel with Nightline.
I miss real television journalism.
I miss the satirical savagery of Chuck Barris’ game shows: The Dating Game, The Newlywed Game, The $1.98 Beauty Pageant, Treasure Hunt, Three’s A Crowd and The Gong Show. Variety shows like Carol Burnett, Flip Wilson, Sonny & Cher, Tony Orlando & Dawn, Dean Martin and, yes, Iris Chacon. The monologues of Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show and Bob Hope on his monthly specials. (I miss Bob Hope’s ‘surprise’ appearances on Carson’s Tonight show to promote said specials.)
I miss seeing stand-ups like Moms Mabley, Myron Cohen, Jimmy Martinez, Timmie Rogers, Alan King, Slappy White, Jackie Vernon, Totie Fields, and Bill Saluga doing Raymond J. Johnson Junior. Foster Brooks and Ruth Buzzi on the Dean Martin roasts. The things a sleep-deprived Jerry Lewis would say at 4 a.m. on the Labor Day telethon. Daytime talk shows hosted by Dinah Shore, Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin. Affable game show hosts like Peter Marshall, Gene Rayburn, Allen Ludden, Tom Kennedy, Wink Martindale and Bill Cullen.
I miss Richard Pryor, Andy Kaufman, Robin Harris, George Carlin, Bernie Mac, Sam Kinison and Patrice O’ Neal.
I miss Freddie Prinze saying ‘looking good’ on Chico and the Man. Gabriel Kaplan’s opening and closing jokes on Welcome Back Kotter. Bob Newhart on the telephone in any of his sitcoms. Candice Bergen murdering Motown songs on Murphy Brown. Crime dramas like Columbo, Kojak, Starsky & Hutch, Miami Vice, Vegas, Ironside, Remington Steele and The Rockford Files. The reliable charm of actors like Robert Wagner in shows like It Takes A Thief, Switch and Hart to Hart; David Janssen in The Fugitive and Harry O; Raymond Burr in Perry Mason and Ironside; Robert Urich in about 150 shows. The joys of bad TV on doomed shows like Pink Lady & Jeff, Manimal, The Brady Bunch Variety Hour, Hello Larry and Baywatch Nights. Chiller Theater on Channel 11 and Kung-Fu Theater on Channel 5. The weekday 4:30 movie on Channel 7. The Million-Dollar Movie on Channel 9.
Finally, I miss my friends and family who’ve passed through this earth on their way to a higher realm. It’s the memory of their laughter that warms my heart even when tears fill my eyes. As for you, dear reader, may this year bring you wonderful memories to cherish that you can document, as I just have, in the decades to come.
I miss double-features at the movies. Kung fu films and Italian westerns on the Deuce. Blaxploitation flicks at the Madison, the Kenmore and the Loews Gates. The horror and action bill at the Cosmo. First run movies in their second run at third prices at the Alpine, the Drake, the Midwood, the St. Mark’s, the 72nd Street East and the Essex. Revival films at the Regency, the Metro, the Thalia, the Bleecker Street Cinema and the New Yorker. Seeing widescreen epics at the Astor Plaza, the Loews State, the Warner, the Rivoli, the National and Radio City Music Hall. Checking out arty fare at the Baronet, the Coronet, the Tower East and the Sutton. Programs in the theatre lobby. The rush during intermission to the bathroom and the concession stand.
I miss Nedicks’ hot dogs with the square bun. Orangeade served in pointed paper cups and plastic holders. No frills diners with unlaminated menus and terrific food. The cheeseburgers at Woolworth’s. Malt shops. Newsstands that sold comic books, baseball cards and candy.
I miss department stores like Korvette’s, B. Altman’s, May’s, S. Klein, Gimbel’s, Alexander’s and Abraham & Straus. Shopping at record stores like Discomat, Jimmy’s Music World, Sam Goody’s and The Wiz. Meeting friends while browsing through the jazz section at Tower, HMV and Virgin.
I miss checking out shows at CBGB’s, Max’s Kansas City, the Savoy, the Palladium, the Ritz, Disco Fever and the Bottom Line. Dancing at the Garage, Bentley’s, the Saint, the World, the Underground, Area, Private Eyes, the Roxy, Danceteria, Club Broadway and the Corso. People dressed to the nines to go out dancing. Summer concerts at Central Park’s Wollman Rink. Block parties in El Barrio.
I miss Machito, La Lupe, Hector Lavoe, Celia Cruz and Tito Puente.
I miss transistor radios, boomboxes, walkmans and Discmans. LP’s, 45’s and 12” extended mixes. Listening to WABC, WNEW, WQEW, WWRL, WJIT, WBLS, 99X, WRVR and Disco 92 WKTU. Disc jockeys like Ron Lundy, Dan Ingram, Chuck Leonard, Les Davis, Paco, Ken “Spider” Webb, Lamarr Renee, Vy Higgensen, Al Roberts, Rosko, William B. Williams, Stan Martin and Frankie “Hollywood” Crocker.
I miss playing punchball, handball, stickball, running bases and skelly. Pick-up softball games. Clyde taking Jerry West apart at the top of the key, Earl the Pearl shaking Phil Chenier in the lane, Jerry Lucas’ rainbow bombs, Micheal Ray Richardson’s fearlessness during the game’s final minute and Bernard King soaring on the break. Marv Albert broadcasting Knick games and Marty Glickman doing the same for the Giants. The Mets’ Lindsey Nelson, Bob Murphy and Ralph Kiner. Gary Thorne. Steve Zabriskie. Met Old-timers’ games. The Yankees’ Phil Rizzuto but only with Bill White. Bobby Murcer.
I miss listening to old Dodger, Giant and Yankee fans argue in a donut and coffee shop over which team had the best centerfielder. Watching Dave Kingman swing. Seeing Don Mattingly hit a line drive. Keith Hernandez fielding a bunt. John Stearns blocking the plate. The way the Met teams of the mid-‘80s.owned the town. Watching Mookie Wilson run and Dwight Gooden freeze an opposing batter with a curveball. Phil Simms and Joe Namath dropping back to uncork a throw. A LT pass rush. Harry Carson stuffing a running back. A Dave Jennings punt. Bavaro shedding would-be tacklers. Al Toon. Mark Messier guaranteeing a victory. Pat Riley smoothening out his suit. A Billy Martin glare. The ABA. Dr. J. in a Nets uniform.
I miss the Mets on Channel 9 and the Yankees on Channel 11. I miss Shea Stadium. Yankee Stadium, too.
I miss shopping at Canal Jeans and scouring the East Village for secondhand coats, surplus military raincoats and tuxedo jackets. Skinny leather ties. Levi’s denim jackets festooned with buttons, safety pins and patches.
I miss ¾ leather coats with a belt, bellbottoms, dashikis, platform shoes, Qiana shirts, suede Puma sneakers, applejack caps cocked to the side and folding afropicks. Pierre Cardin cologne and Hai Karate commercials. Toys like Secret Sam and Gnip Gnop. G.I. Joe’s with kung-fu grip and mini-afros.
I miss kid’s TV with hosts like Beachcomber Bob, Officer Joe Bolton, Soupy Sales, Sandy Becker, Sonny Fox, and Paul Winchell with Jerry Mahoney & Knucklehead Smiff. Bob McAllister on Wonderama and Mario Cantone on Steampipe Alley. Uncle Floyd. Willie Tyler & Lester. Schoolhouse Rock. Shazam and Isis. Far Out Space Nuts. Felix the Cat. Dick Tracy. Courageous Cat & Minute Mouse. The theme songs to all of the Marvel Superheroes cartoons.
I miss subway tokens and confusing transit maps that took forever to unfold. Monthly bus and subway passes from school. Waving to get the attention of the subway clerk before entering the station through the exit door. Trains with ripped leather and wicker seats and slowly revolving fans. New Yorkers getting angry when the fare hit 50 cents. Folks buying the Daily News in the morning and the Post in the afternoon. Riders reading paperback books.
I miss Eyewitness News with Roger Grimsby, Bill Beutel, Melba Tolliver, Anna Bond, John Johnson, Warner Wolf, Guy Lebow, Spencer Christian and, yes, the pre-Fox Geraldo Rivera. CBS News with Walter Cronkite, Eric Severeid, Dan Rather, Roger Mudd and Mike Wallace. Linda Ellerbee on NBC. Ted Koppel with Nightline.
I miss real television journalism.
I miss the satirical savagery of Chuck Barris’ game shows: The Dating Game, The Newlywed Game, The $1.98 Beauty Pageant, Treasure Hunt, Three’s A Crowd and The Gong Show. Variety shows like Carol Burnett, Flip Wilson, Sonny & Cher, Tony Orlando & Dawn, Dean Martin and, yes, Iris Chacon. The monologues of Johnny Carson on the Tonight Show and Bob Hope on his monthly specials. (I miss Bob Hope’s ‘surprise’ appearances on Carson’s Tonight show to promote said specials.)
I miss seeing stand-ups like Moms Mabley, Myron Cohen, Jimmy Martinez, Timmie Rogers, Alan King, Slappy White, Jackie Vernon, Totie Fields, and Bill Saluga doing Raymond J. Johnson Junior. Foster Brooks and Ruth Buzzi on the Dean Martin roasts. The things a sleep-deprived Jerry Lewis would say at 4 a.m. on the Labor Day telethon. Daytime talk shows hosted by Dinah Shore, Mike Douglas and Merv Griffin. Affable game show hosts like Peter Marshall, Gene Rayburn, Allen Ludden, Tom Kennedy, Wink Martindale and Bill Cullen.
I miss Richard Pryor, Andy Kaufman, Robin Harris, George Carlin, Bernie Mac, Sam Kinison and Patrice O’ Neal.
I miss Freddie Prinze saying ‘looking good’ on Chico and the Man. Gabriel Kaplan’s opening and closing jokes on Welcome Back Kotter. Bob Newhart on the telephone in any of his sitcoms. Candice Bergen murdering Motown songs on Murphy Brown. Crime dramas like Columbo, Kojak, Starsky & Hutch, Miami Vice, Vegas, Ironside, Remington Steele and The Rockford Files. The reliable charm of actors like Robert Wagner in shows like It Takes A Thief, Switch and Hart to Hart; David Janssen in The Fugitive and Harry O; Raymond Burr in Perry Mason and Ironside; Robert Urich in about 150 shows. The joys of bad TV on doomed shows like Pink Lady & Jeff, Manimal, The Brady Bunch Variety Hour, Hello Larry and Baywatch Nights. Chiller Theater on Channel 11 and Kung-Fu Theater on Channel 5. The weekday 4:30 movie on Channel 7. The Million-Dollar Movie on Channel 9.
Finally, I miss my friends and family who’ve passed through this earth on their way to a higher realm. It’s the memory of their laughter that warms my heart even when tears fill my eyes. As for you, dear reader, may this year bring you wonderful memories to cherish that you can document, as I just have, in the decades to come.
September 20, 2011
Amy, Amy, Amy
It’s funny the events in one’s life that are recalled with crystal clear clarity. I’m a writer who loves William Shakespeare but cannot recite his dialogue at will. Yet, I can quote chapter and verse when it comes, for example, to Neil Simon comedies as well as episodes of The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, Batman, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All In The Family, The Odd Couple, Get Smart, Roseanne, The King Of Queens, The Flintstones and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I have the sort of weird memory that only recollects movies I’ve seen but also the theatres I saw them at and the audience reaction to certain scenes. (Yeah, I know, it’s a gift.)
Music affects me the same way. I can remember where I was when I heard certain songs or artists for the first time. For example, one time I was visiting a friend of mine who worked at The New Yorker magazine’s mailroom. My friend had music playing softly on her office computer when I walked into her work area. What I heard literally made me stop in my tracks. (It was a musical Michael Corleone-meets-Apollonia moment.) The voice coming through the speaker was that of a youngish lady– one as influenced by Mary J. Blige as by Dinah Washington – singing with an unusual maturity over a tough infectious funky groove.
The singer I quickly found out was a British teenager named Amy Winehouse. The song was the eleven-minute plus closing opus “Amy Amy Amy” from a then-import only CD entitled Frank. Within the hour, I was on a line in the Virgin Megastore – hey, remember record stores? - purchasing her album. For the next couple of weeks, Amy had tip-top rotation in my computer, my CD player – hey, remember them too? – and my I-Pod.
If I was only comparing her to other white female soul singers, I’d have to say that Winehouse was a combination of Lisa Stansfield’s vocal dexterity and Teena Marie’s idiosyncratic lyricism. (By the way, the latter still remains the platinum standard of Caucasian soul.) Except where Teena Marie’s songs treated love as a mystical, magical concept, a Winehouse composition was hip-hop blunt and street-smart direct. Her two best tunes on Frank were prime examples of this: “Fuck Me Pumps” was a cautionary groupie tale and “I Heard Love Is Blind” found her trying to explain her discovered infidelity to her lover. Then she’d flip the script and perform inspired covers of jazz standards like “Mister Magic” and “Moody’s Mood For Love.” No doubt about it, Frank was an impressive debut from a major talent.
Winehouse’s next work Back To Black was even better. Where Frank cautiously melded hip-hop and jazz influences, Back To Black confidently overlaid a Phil Spector -Motown -Stax soulful sheen onto Winehouse’s dusky, defiant bluesy vocals. And the lyrical content was even more candid with witty tales of alcohol and drug-fueled debauchery – along with incisive allusions to folk like Slick Rick, Donny Hathaway and Sammy Davis Jr. - besides heartbreaking tales of lost love. It was a great album showcasing the sound of a singer/songwriter who’d explosively come into her own.
Then came….nothing. No new album or music. Nothing except tabloid headlines, embarrassing concert appearances played ad infinitum on the internet and repeated interventions both public and private until Winehouse’s truly tragic demise earlier this year at the age of 27.
I have to admit I was genuinely saddened by Winehouse’s death. (Saddened but not surprised.) As such, it took me a long time to play her music. In fact, this past weekend was the first time I listened to Back To Black since Winehouse passed away. It was a sobering – pun intended – experience to say the least.
“Rehab” – with her cries of ‘no no no’ and a determination not to ‘go go go’ – now seems like willful self-destruction. And Winehouse’s cry of how ‘I just need a friend’ is heartrendering while “You Know I’m No Good” with her talk of ‘cheating herself’ seems distressingly prescient. “Some Unholy War” and “Me And Mr. Jones ” - with her chilling cry of ‘what kind of fuckery is this?’ – painfully details the allure of self-destructive liaisons whereas “My Tears Dry On Their Own” and “Wake Up Alone” show the agonizing ache of post-relationship depression. And the druggy delivery of “Back To Black” – with the now excruciating line of ‘I died a hundred times’ – and “Love Is A Losing Game” merely heightens Winehouse’s internal torment. What was once a bright brilliant pop record of youthful defiance has been transformed into an artistic and emotional last will and testament on the order of the Billie Holiday masterwork Lady In Satin.
Strangely enough, the only song for me that still maintains the original sense of rebellious verve is also the most overt on the album: “Addiction.” Unfortunately left off Back To Black’s stateside release, the song finds Winehouse gently, rhythmically, chiding her girlfriend against a driving Motown backbeat. It seems her pal’s beau has been dipping into Winehouse’s weed supply without replacing it. Perhaps, it’s the warm conversational tone Winehouse adopts throughout the tune that robs it of any posthumous sting. Yet, it has her most revealing couplet. ‘It’s got me addicted/Does more then any dick did.’ (Talk about your candor!)
To her credit, Winehouse always dealt with her audience with uncommon honesty. (It wasn’t an accident her first album was named Frank.) It’s just too bad that so many of those adoring aficionados paid more attention to catchy pop trappings then the desperate pleadings of a young lady battling her demons out loud. And because of those demons, an incandescent performer has flickered out. Forever.
It’s funny the events in one’s life that are recalled with crystal clear clarity. I’m a writer who loves William Shakespeare but cannot recite his dialogue at will. Yet, I can quote chapter and verse when it comes, for example, to Neil Simon comedies as well as episodes of The Honeymooners, I Love Lucy, Seinfeld, Batman, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, All In The Family, The Odd Couple, Get Smart, Roseanne, The King Of Queens, The Flintstones and Bugs Bunny cartoons. I have the sort of weird memory that only recollects movies I’ve seen but also the theatres I saw them at and the audience reaction to certain scenes. (Yeah, I know, it’s a gift.)
Music affects me the same way. I can remember where I was when I heard certain songs or artists for the first time. For example, one time I was visiting a friend of mine who worked at The New Yorker magazine’s mailroom. My friend had music playing softly on her office computer when I walked into her work area. What I heard literally made me stop in my tracks. (It was a musical Michael Corleone-meets-Apollonia moment.) The voice coming through the speaker was that of a youngish lady– one as influenced by Mary J. Blige as by Dinah Washington – singing with an unusual maturity over a tough infectious funky groove.
The singer I quickly found out was a British teenager named Amy Winehouse. The song was the eleven-minute plus closing opus “Amy Amy Amy” from a then-import only CD entitled Frank. Within the hour, I was on a line in the Virgin Megastore – hey, remember record stores? - purchasing her album. For the next couple of weeks, Amy had tip-top rotation in my computer, my CD player – hey, remember them too? – and my I-Pod.
If I was only comparing her to other white female soul singers, I’d have to say that Winehouse was a combination of Lisa Stansfield’s vocal dexterity and Teena Marie’s idiosyncratic lyricism. (By the way, the latter still remains the platinum standard of Caucasian soul.) Except where Teena Marie’s songs treated love as a mystical, magical concept, a Winehouse composition was hip-hop blunt and street-smart direct. Her two best tunes on Frank were prime examples of this: “Fuck Me Pumps” was a cautionary groupie tale and “I Heard Love Is Blind” found her trying to explain her discovered infidelity to her lover. Then she’d flip the script and perform inspired covers of jazz standards like “Mister Magic” and “Moody’s Mood For Love.” No doubt about it, Frank was an impressive debut from a major talent.
Winehouse’s next work Back To Black was even better. Where Frank cautiously melded hip-hop and jazz influences, Back To Black confidently overlaid a Phil Spector -Motown -Stax soulful sheen onto Winehouse’s dusky, defiant bluesy vocals. And the lyrical content was even more candid with witty tales of alcohol and drug-fueled debauchery – along with incisive allusions to folk like Slick Rick, Donny Hathaway and Sammy Davis Jr. - besides heartbreaking tales of lost love. It was a great album showcasing the sound of a singer/songwriter who’d explosively come into her own.
Then came….nothing. No new album or music. Nothing except tabloid headlines, embarrassing concert appearances played ad infinitum on the internet and repeated interventions both public and private until Winehouse’s truly tragic demise earlier this year at the age of 27.
I have to admit I was genuinely saddened by Winehouse’s death. (Saddened but not surprised.) As such, it took me a long time to play her music. In fact, this past weekend was the first time I listened to Back To Black since Winehouse passed away. It was a sobering – pun intended – experience to say the least.
“Rehab” – with her cries of ‘no no no’ and a determination not to ‘go go go’ – now seems like willful self-destruction. And Winehouse’s cry of how ‘I just need a friend’ is heartrendering while “You Know I’m No Good” with her talk of ‘cheating herself’ seems distressingly prescient. “Some Unholy War” and “Me And Mr. Jones ” - with her chilling cry of ‘what kind of fuckery is this?’ – painfully details the allure of self-destructive liaisons whereas “My Tears Dry On Their Own” and “Wake Up Alone” show the agonizing ache of post-relationship depression. And the druggy delivery of “Back To Black” – with the now excruciating line of ‘I died a hundred times’ – and “Love Is A Losing Game” merely heightens Winehouse’s internal torment. What was once a bright brilliant pop record of youthful defiance has been transformed into an artistic and emotional last will and testament on the order of the Billie Holiday masterwork Lady In Satin.
Strangely enough, the only song for me that still maintains the original sense of rebellious verve is also the most overt on the album: “Addiction.” Unfortunately left off Back To Black’s stateside release, the song finds Winehouse gently, rhythmically, chiding her girlfriend against a driving Motown backbeat. It seems her pal’s beau has been dipping into Winehouse’s weed supply without replacing it. Perhaps, it’s the warm conversational tone Winehouse adopts throughout the tune that robs it of any posthumous sting. Yet, it has her most revealing couplet. ‘It’s got me addicted/Does more then any dick did.’ (Talk about your candor!)
To her credit, Winehouse always dealt with her audience with uncommon honesty. (It wasn’t an accident her first album was named Frank.) It’s just too bad that so many of those adoring aficionados paid more attention to catchy pop trappings then the desperate pleadings of a young lady battling her demons out loud. And because of those demons, an incandescent performer has flickered out. Forever.
March 24, 2011
Passings
Here are some musings on three recent artist passings.
Nate Dogg: My late friend Tom Terrell and I once spent a hilarious lunch many moons ago at the now-shuttered Acme Diner musing about all the things we would have the then-ubiquitous Nate Dogg sing. (Among the more inspired – and fit for public viewing - suggestions were the instructions on our answering machines, the introduction to every single news program on television and the usually dull explanation about the voting rules on award shows.) But that’s how pervasive his vocals - most notably on Warren G’s "Regulate" – were. If there was a hook to be sung, Nate Dogg sang the hell out of it. It was as if he treated each vocal as if it was a juicy cameo appearance in a major motion picture; it might not have been the starring role but you were sure gonna remember it.
Loleatta Holloway: Without a doubt, the best way to have experienced Loleatta Holloway was at a crowded, cavernous club. Picture being in the midst of a packed dance floor, at a time long past the witching hour, at the end of a long workweek, clothes drenched with the sweat of hours of terpsichorean delight, body close to exhaustion when the powerful gospelish vocals of this lifeforce comes blaring through the speaker system. A voice so strong it would cause the grooving throng to simultaneously let out an orgiastic moan in response, forget their physical fatigue and dance into a collective ecstasy.
Such was the gift of Loleatta Holloway. On jams like “Love Sensation,” “Hit And Run” and “Runaway” with the Salsoul Orchestra, she practically propelled her listeners to boogie on down. While she could also be a subtly soulful singer – check out “Worn Out Broken Heart” and her much-underrated duet with Bunny Sigler “Only You” - it was high energy tracks like the lengthily-titled “I May Not Be There When You Want Me (But I’m Right On Time)” that ensured her disco diva status.
Best of all was her guest appearance on Dan Hartman’s “Vertigo/Relight My Fire.” An engaging dance song with an unusual symphonic sweep is transformed into a bonafide classic about 6:35 into it when Holloway blasts onto the scene. Screaming “I’ve got to be strong enough to walk on through the night,” her full-throttle entrance kicks the tune into the stratosphere. (Mela Machinko has a similar effect on Pharoahe Monch’s “Shine.”) Amazingly, Holloway maintains the same intensity for the next 3:08 – relegating Hartman to background duties on his own song - until the track finally fades out as if happily drained by her vigorous vocalizing. And that spirited singing is what finally distinguishes Loleatta Holloway from a host of others. No matter what the inherent quality of the song – even on so-so fare like “Mama Don’t, Papa Won’t” and “Dance What Cha Wanna” – she never cheated her listeners. She always left it all on the mike.
Elizabeth Taylor: Forget the whole Cleopatra controversy – I mean, c’mon, has anyone ever expected Hollywood to be historically accurate? – the multiple illnesses and the eight marriages. What has to be remembered about Elizabeth Taylor – besides her preternatural beauty – is how many fine performances she gave throughout her career but especially in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
There was her ferocious Academy Award-winning turn – the one she deserved – as Martha in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf which she comes close to matching as the title role in The Taming Of The Shrew. There’s her quiet strength as Rock Hudson’s patient, wise wife in Giant. Or her emotional desperation in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Reflections In A Golden Eye in which both of her leading men – Paul Newman and Marlon Brando respectively – deal with themes of repressed homosexuality. The skill in which she delivers her climatic haunting monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer. The tenderness between Taylor and her screen papa Spencer Tracy in Father Of The Bride and Father’s Little Dividend.
My favorite performance of hers during this period is that of the rich girl Montgomery Clift pursues in A Place In The Sun. There are few sexier poignant moments in cinematic history then when Clift – back to the camera – is verbally unburdening himself to Taylor. As directed by George Stevens, the scene is a long take, a semi-obscured - by Clift’s body – close-up of Taylor’s gorgeous face. She lets the viewer see the impact each halting word of Clift has on her so by the time she physically pulls him in for a rib-crunching hug, the effect is as emotionally wrenching and sensually satisfying as any explicit sex scene in, say, Last Tango In Paris.
Why the roll call of roles? To make a simple point. When it comes to Elizabeth Taylor, acknowledge the tabloid stuff, respect the activism, sigh at the beauty but never forget the artistry. It is that, one hopes, which will be her lasting legacy.
Nate Dogg: My late friend Tom Terrell and I once spent a hilarious lunch many moons ago at the now-shuttered Acme Diner musing about all the things we would have the then-ubiquitous Nate Dogg sing. (Among the more inspired – and fit for public viewing - suggestions were the instructions on our answering machines, the introduction to every single news program on television and the usually dull explanation about the voting rules on award shows.) But that’s how pervasive his vocals - most notably on Warren G’s "Regulate" – were. If there was a hook to be sung, Nate Dogg sang the hell out of it. It was as if he treated each vocal as if it was a juicy cameo appearance in a major motion picture; it might not have been the starring role but you were sure gonna remember it.
Loleatta Holloway: Without a doubt, the best way to have experienced Loleatta Holloway was at a crowded, cavernous club. Picture being in the midst of a packed dance floor, at a time long past the witching hour, at the end of a long workweek, clothes drenched with the sweat of hours of terpsichorean delight, body close to exhaustion when the powerful gospelish vocals of this lifeforce comes blaring through the speaker system. A voice so strong it would cause the grooving throng to simultaneously let out an orgiastic moan in response, forget their physical fatigue and dance into a collective ecstasy.
Such was the gift of Loleatta Holloway. On jams like “Love Sensation,” “Hit And Run” and “Runaway” with the Salsoul Orchestra, she practically propelled her listeners to boogie on down. While she could also be a subtly soulful singer – check out “Worn Out Broken Heart” and her much-underrated duet with Bunny Sigler “Only You” - it was high energy tracks like the lengthily-titled “I May Not Be There When You Want Me (But I’m Right On Time)” that ensured her disco diva status.
Best of all was her guest appearance on Dan Hartman’s “Vertigo/Relight My Fire.” An engaging dance song with an unusual symphonic sweep is transformed into a bonafide classic about 6:35 into it when Holloway blasts onto the scene. Screaming “I’ve got to be strong enough to walk on through the night,” her full-throttle entrance kicks the tune into the stratosphere. (Mela Machinko has a similar effect on Pharoahe Monch’s “Shine.”) Amazingly, Holloway maintains the same intensity for the next 3:08 – relegating Hartman to background duties on his own song - until the track finally fades out as if happily drained by her vigorous vocalizing. And that spirited singing is what finally distinguishes Loleatta Holloway from a host of others. No matter what the inherent quality of the song – even on so-so fare like “Mama Don’t, Papa Won’t” and “Dance What Cha Wanna” – she never cheated her listeners. She always left it all on the mike.
Elizabeth Taylor: Forget the whole Cleopatra controversy – I mean, c’mon, has anyone ever expected Hollywood to be historically accurate? – the multiple illnesses and the eight marriages. What has to be remembered about Elizabeth Taylor – besides her preternatural beauty – is how many fine performances she gave throughout her career but especially in the ‘50s and ‘60s.
There was her ferocious Academy Award-winning turn – the one she deserved – as Martha in Who’s Afraid Of Virginia Woolf which she comes close to matching as the title role in The Taming Of The Shrew. There’s her quiet strength as Rock Hudson’s patient, wise wife in Giant. Or her emotional desperation in Cat On A Hot Tin Roof and Reflections In A Golden Eye in which both of her leading men – Paul Newman and Marlon Brando respectively – deal with themes of repressed homosexuality. The skill in which she delivers her climatic haunting monologue in Suddenly, Last Summer. The tenderness between Taylor and her screen papa Spencer Tracy in Father Of The Bride and Father’s Little Dividend.
My favorite performance of hers during this period is that of the rich girl Montgomery Clift pursues in A Place In The Sun. There are few sexier poignant moments in cinematic history then when Clift – back to the camera – is verbally unburdening himself to Taylor. As directed by George Stevens, the scene is a long take, a semi-obscured - by Clift’s body – close-up of Taylor’s gorgeous face. She lets the viewer see the impact each halting word of Clift has on her so by the time she physically pulls him in for a rib-crunching hug, the effect is as emotionally wrenching and sensually satisfying as any explicit sex scene in, say, Last Tango In Paris.
Why the roll call of roles? To make a simple point. When it comes to Elizabeth Taylor, acknowledge the tabloid stuff, respect the activism, sigh at the beauty but never forget the artistry. It is that, one hopes, which will be her lasting legacy.
March 17, 2011
Renegades
For many of us who grew up during rap’s nascent age, there’s a tendency to automatically dismiss much of modern hip-hop. The litany of contemptuous comments can range from complaining that the music isn’t danceable enough – or too danceable for the rhythmically challenged – to a lack of, well, pick one, spiritual, political, social or topical context. In many ways, we of hip-hop’s first generation – the true Generation X – have mirrored the advances in musical technology. As rap’s delivery system transitioned from black wax to cassette tape to encoded shiny silver discs to digital downloads, we evolved from acolytes to record buyers to occasional concertgoers to unofficial music historians.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
(The latter’s duties usually include identifying samples for barely patient teenagers, complaining that today’s rappers lack the flow of fill-in-the-blank and occasionally tossing out a slang term like “dope” and “da joint” while opining about life back-in-da-day. Speaking of which, I recently stopped in my tracks while overhearing two gray-haired brothers discussing on a Manhattan street corner how one of them ‘cold rocked a party.’)
But as bombastic as our hip-hop proclamations may seem to the younger set, we come by these edicts honestly. See, our love for this musical form was a tactile one. We knew we were a part of a movement we felt as deeply as the stacks of ebony vinyl we carried in our knapsacks or in the plastic milk crates we’d liberated from the local supermarket to house basement parties. The heat generated from our fellow denim-clad revelers was only matched by the rhythms emanating from the two Technics turntables carefully set in the center of a corrugated steel picnic table. Much as the jazz generation prior to ours had heard in bebop the sounds of intellectual and emotional liberation, so too did we hear a similar rush of freedom in hip-hop. (The major difference being, of course, unlike the jagged arrangements of bop, you could still dance to rap.)
It was that sense of exhilaration and discovery – of being part of something - that comforted us as we made our way home through darkened streets, deserted subway platforms – always preferable during late hours to the alternative – and on local trains which offered nightly seminars on the art of the ice grill. While the journeys may have been somewhat sketchy, it was the power of music that always made the trip a worthwhile one.
As we aged and made the transition from token buyers to SUV and hybrid owners with EZ-passes, so to did some of our heroes. We watched with equal parts bemusement and horror as the firebrands we once admired for their rebellious nature become slowly acclimated into American mainstream culture: Flavor Flav as a VH1 reality show star. Snoop Dogg flinging zingers at a Comedy Central roast of Donald Trump. LL Cool J defending our country’s liberty on NCIS: Los Angeles. Ice Cube hawking a sitcom on TBS with a smile and the tagline: “Very funny.”
For some of us, this made feel older than our whitening or thinning hair, thickening bellies and liver spots. For some of us, this pandering parade reminded us more of what hip-hop’s lost than what it still possessed. For some of us, the power of the music seemed to be muted if not forever lost.
See, as Yoda-like – or should I say Gandalf-ish? – as we might appear to our younger brethren, that doesn’t mean our passion for the musical form has diminished. Much as a seasoned NBA fan who grew up on Dr. J, Bird, Magic and Jordan – and heard from his elders about the wonders of Oscar Robertson and Elgin Baylor – can get excited at the exploits of LeBron James, Derrick Rose and Kevin Durant, an elder hip-hop head who grew up debating about Public Enemy and NWA or Tupac and Biggie can still exult upon first listen of a Reasonable Doubt or a College Dropout. We still possess that sense of exhilaration and discovery when we hear something special, something real.
Such a work is Pharoahe Monch’s latest disc: W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). A visionary – in the truest sense of the word – album, W.A.R. begins with Idris Elba – yes, ladies, that Idris Elba – as a soldier in Afghanistan who on the date July 27, 2023 has unearthed classified information which ‘changes everything.’ Uploading said info to the military satellite Horace, Elba cautions his listeners that ‘what you are hearing is a warning.’
Actually, it’s more than that. What we are hearing is Monch’s manifesto, the platform of a verbally dexterous veteran of over a decade and a half in the rap game who from his mid-‘90s debut as part of Organized Konfusion has maintained and mollycoddled a fiercely idiosyncratic vision. On W.A.R. Monch lays out our present and near-future with the perceptive, confident voiceover of a dystopian Raymond Chandler. This is neo-noir of the highest order.
“Get used to wisdom,” Monch implores on “Evolve.” Part of that sagacity includes raising ‘a middle finger to mass media,” he states on “W.A.R.” which ‘mutes the news’ to maintain a ‘psychological dictatorship.’ The insurgency of intellect is a pervasive theme throughout W.A.R. (We Are Renegades). Monch regularly reminds his listeners that he is on the battle front lines with each successive track being a plea to join him.
What keeps W.A.R. from being a straight-up polemic – besides Monch’s humanistic wit - are the exquisite instrumentation and production by such gifted folk as M-Phazes, Mike Loe, Samiyam, Diamond D and Marco Polo among others. Each track provides a perfect musical backdrop to Monch’s skillfully incisive lyrics. On “Calculated Amalgamation,” there’s the use of the drum cymbal as a symbol for a call if not to arms to awakening. The vibe loop – and Mela Machinko’s anguished vocal – propels a confidently laconic Monch through “Shine.” There are the choral voices on “Evolve” and the swirling strings on the R & B infused “Black Hand Side.” (The latter track invigorated by the contributions of Styles P and Phonte.) The propulsive bass of “Hit Man” perfectly echoing Monch’s corrosive view of the music biz. (A jaundiced view replete with artists releasing sex tapes for publicity and the greatest Radiohead pun ever.) There’s the anthemic rock of “The Grand Illusion (circa 1973)” - with promises of a ‘lyrical revolution’ – the gospel call & response juxtaposed with Monch’s fire & brimstone sermon on “Let My People Go” and Vernon Reid’s searing fretwork on “W.A.R.” All outstanding, all unforgettable.
Reid, Machinko, Styles P and Phonte are some of Monch’s many gifted collaborators on W.A.R. “Assassins” features Royce da 5’9” and a fierce Jean Grae – who, along with Monch are the last three freethinkers left in his Shangri-Nah - while the joyous “Clap” contains terrific contributions by Showtyme and D.J. Boogie Blind. Best of all is the album closer “Still Standing” with an impassioned Jill Scott - singing with a wounded world weariness - ferociously testifying while Monch at his most convivial raps about overcoming a ‘lung disease’ and refusing to leading a life destined to becoming just another statistic. “I have no dead bodies to claim,” he asserts while reminding his listeners to celebrate – if only momentarily - their survival as strangers in this strange land.
And, in turn, his listeners should celebrate Monch for a true musical tour-de-force. With a wide ranging fusion of soul, gospel, rock and jazz mixed into his rhythmic brew, Monch and company have practically provided a mini-treatise on the history of Black music in this country. Not to mention his ever dazzling dexterous verbosity. (My fave – for far too many reasons to list here - is his rhyming of “Steve Rifkin” with “Snake Plissen”) By casting a prophetic glance into the near-future and combining it with a loving respect for his musical past, Pharoahe Monch has provided us with the present-day’s best album. With W.A.R., he touches the renegade - and revitalizes the hip-hop rebel - in all of us.
December 29, 2010
A Memory
The following remembrance is inspired by the terrific and prolific writer Odilia Rivera Santos who as part of her People for the Ethical Treatment of Puerto Ricans project at http://peopleforpuertorico.blogspot.com has asked writers to - among other suggestions - address their experiences as a Puerto Rican. As such, I'd say the next piece describes more a coming-to-awareness than a coming-of-age.
A Memory
by Richard Torres
I was ten years old and wearing my dark blue Easter suit in the middle of July. The reason? My parents had been invited by friends of theirs to a celebration of their daughter’s christening being held at a community center in what the tabloids at the time referred to as Spanish Harlem but what my family – who all hailed from and/or still lived there – lovingly called El Barrio. So we gift wrapped presents purchased from Alexander’s department store – which I carried in an Abraham & Straus shopping bag – got dressed up in our finest going-out garb and made the lengthy trek from Bushwick, Brooklyn to the aforementioned Barrio. While the summer air was predictably warm, it was nothing compared to the heat inside the windowless community center. I remember instinctively raising my right hand – the one not carrying the gifts – to loosen my blue and yellow striped tie. When my father saw what I was about to do, he quickly grabbed my hand. Shaking his head, he quietly but firmly informed me that ‘we don’t do that.’ He then pointed at the people already in the center. I looked and noted that every man was wearing a suit and tie. (Even the Joe Cuba Sextet which was setting up in the far corner.) Not one had removed his jacket nor had they loosened much less taken off their tie. Understanding, I nodded. My father smiled and lifted me onto a nearby stool in front of a makeshift bar. The bartender smiled at me as I ordered a cream soda on the rocks. The hostess of the evening - and proud mother - came over to us. At my mother’s urging, I handed her the shopping bag. She thanked me with a kiss on my forehead. I smiled my Kool-Aid smile while my mother remarked that I obviously enjoyed that very much. ‘Very much,’ my father repeated with a smile of his own. I realized his smile was a lot like mine. Then Joe Cuba and his band began to play. The song was “A Las Seis.” My father reached for my mother’s hand and they strode to the dance floor. It was an action repeated throughout the community center by every couple. Within seconds of Joe’s first downbeat, the dance floor was as crowded as Times Square on New Year’s Day. Out of the corner of my eye, I could spot an old man making his way to the bar. I instantly put up the invisible barrier I’d been taught to whenever an adult stranger entered my airspace. (Basically, this consisted of mimicking my father’s do-not-mess-with-me posture.) I could tell by his unsteady gait that the old man was drunk. He ordered a Bacardi and Coke. The bartender warily gave it to him. The old man quickly gulped down half of it then looked at me. I made sure not to look away. (After all, I wasn’t a kid; I was ten years of age.) After a brief staring match, he smiled at me and gestured to the dance floor. I carefully turned my head making sure to keep sight of him in the corner of my eye. The moment was magical. It was as if it were choreographed. Well-dressed men in their suits and ties turning their beautiful women in their dresses and heels as the band exhorted them to move even faster. (To my ten-year old eyes, it was like watching folks of various hues wearing various colors becoming an iridescent dancing rainbow.) And they did, wiping out whatever woes they had with each step, shake and shimmy. The Kool-Aid smile returned to my face. The old man smiled back at me and said before he walked away: “Now, aren’t we a fucking elegant people?” I looked back at the dance floor with my parents in the epicenter of it and proudly agreed that yes, we are. Yes, we are.
A Memory
by Richard Torres
I was ten years old and wearing my dark blue Easter suit in the middle of July. The reason? My parents had been invited by friends of theirs to a celebration of their daughter’s christening being held at a community center in what the tabloids at the time referred to as Spanish Harlem but what my family – who all hailed from and/or still lived there – lovingly called El Barrio. So we gift wrapped presents purchased from Alexander’s department store – which I carried in an Abraham & Straus shopping bag – got dressed up in our finest going-out garb and made the lengthy trek from Bushwick, Brooklyn to the aforementioned Barrio. While the summer air was predictably warm, it was nothing compared to the heat inside the windowless community center. I remember instinctively raising my right hand – the one not carrying the gifts – to loosen my blue and yellow striped tie. When my father saw what I was about to do, he quickly grabbed my hand. Shaking his head, he quietly but firmly informed me that ‘we don’t do that.’ He then pointed at the people already in the center. I looked and noted that every man was wearing a suit and tie. (Even the Joe Cuba Sextet which was setting up in the far corner.) Not one had removed his jacket nor had they loosened much less taken off their tie. Understanding, I nodded. My father smiled and lifted me onto a nearby stool in front of a makeshift bar. The bartender smiled at me as I ordered a cream soda on the rocks. The hostess of the evening - and proud mother - came over to us. At my mother’s urging, I handed her the shopping bag. She thanked me with a kiss on my forehead. I smiled my Kool-Aid smile while my mother remarked that I obviously enjoyed that very much. ‘Very much,’ my father repeated with a smile of his own. I realized his smile was a lot like mine. Then Joe Cuba and his band began to play. The song was “A Las Seis.” My father reached for my mother’s hand and they strode to the dance floor. It was an action repeated throughout the community center by every couple. Within seconds of Joe’s first downbeat, the dance floor was as crowded as Times Square on New Year’s Day. Out of the corner of my eye, I could spot an old man making his way to the bar. I instantly put up the invisible barrier I’d been taught to whenever an adult stranger entered my airspace. (Basically, this consisted of mimicking my father’s do-not-mess-with-me posture.) I could tell by his unsteady gait that the old man was drunk. He ordered a Bacardi and Coke. The bartender warily gave it to him. The old man quickly gulped down half of it then looked at me. I made sure not to look away. (After all, I wasn’t a kid; I was ten years of age.) After a brief staring match, he smiled at me and gestured to the dance floor. I carefully turned my head making sure to keep sight of him in the corner of my eye. The moment was magical. It was as if it were choreographed. Well-dressed men in their suits and ties turning their beautiful women in their dresses and heels as the band exhorted them to move even faster. (To my ten-year old eyes, it was like watching folks of various hues wearing various colors becoming an iridescent dancing rainbow.) And they did, wiping out whatever woes they had with each step, shake and shimmy. The Kool-Aid smile returned to my face. The old man smiled back at me and said before he walked away: “Now, aren’t we a fucking elegant people?” I looked back at the dance floor with my parents in the epicenter of it and proudly agreed that yes, we are. Yes, we are.
December 27, 2010
Teena Marie's Path To Soul City
With the untimely death of the great Teena Marie, I decided to dig into my archives and reprint portions of my first – and a personal favorite - article on Lady Tee from the December 5-11 1990 issue of The City Sun newspaper. The result follows....
Teena Marie’s ninth album Ivory is another chapter in the continuing saga of one of music’s most idiosyncratic performers. Tunes by this professional multihyphenate (singer-producer-musician-songwriter-arranger) contain such disparate influences as Marvin Gaye, Nikki Giovanni, Stevie Wonder and, of course, her mentor and frequent duet partner, Rick James.
Marie’s albums have always been an interesting mixture of flower-child lyricism, unabashed romanticism, street-wise posturing within a neo-traditional R&B/urban structure. In other words, homegirl wants you to cry a little, make love a lot, then party afterwards.
Much like Wonder, she’s a classicist; her music seems to evoke rather than provoke. A Marie production is professional in the highest sense of the word. The sound is crisp. The ballads are replete with gorgeous harmonies (Irons in the Fire’s title track, It Must Be Magic’s “Portuguese Love.”) The dance tracks pump with the rhythm section out front, augmented by melodious keyboards and a light sweetening of strings (Irons in the Fire’s “I Need Your Lovin’” and Lady T’s “Behind the Groove.”) The self-proclaimed Lady Tee isn’t interested in breaking new ground; she’s a refurbisher, a nurturer. Her songs are the progeny of the past. They’re subliminal aural candy.
Her career can be divided into two periods: her internship at Motown and her attempts at crossover marketability at Epic. Her first album, Wild and Peaceful bore the distinctive touch of its producer Rick James but the LP seemed more a James project than a Teena Marie one. Except for “I’m a Sucker for Your Love,” Marie’s personality didn’t come through. The result was listenable but disposable.
The follow-up Lady T, produced by Richard Rudolph, was much better. It contained the blueprint for future Teena Marie albums: start the first side with a long dance cut and slowly wind down till it’s time to flip the record. Here was her first outstanding single, “Behind the Groove” and superb slow jam, the introspective “Aladdin’s Lamp.”
“Aladdin’s Lamp” was the prototype of what would become the Teena Marie ballad: an overflow of dense imagery sung with an innocent romanticism. In anyone else’s hands (or voice) “Aladdin’s Lamp” would’ve been utter drivel but because Marie believes what she’s singing and understands what the song is about in relation to her personal views, she becomes convincing. Like Gaye and Wonder, Marie is basically an uncoverable artist. With them, one must listen to their records as a whole for it is their voices that give their songs conviction.
The next two albums, Irons in the Fire and It Must Be Magic, were Marie’s first self-productions and followed the Rudolph formula to a Tee. Both were entertaining and contained many worthwhile cuts. Besides the Magic jam “Square Biz” - with her quintessential line “You’ve heard a boatload of other ladies rap/but they ain’t got nothing on me” - there was Fire’s sensual “You Make Love Like Springtime” and Magic’s “Portuguese Love.” These two discs, together with the incendiary duet on James’ Street Songs, “Fire and Desire,” showed Marie as a comer. They seemed warm-ups for her Talking Book or What’s Going On. Instead, there was a contract dispute with Motown and her career became Epic in label only.
Robbery, her first album for Epic, was, with the exception of “Casanova Brown,” unmemorable. Starchild seemed a smooth recovery with “Lovergirl,” “Out on a Limb” and the very best of the Marvin Gaye tributes, “My Dear Mr. Gaye.” But all forward motion ceased with Emerald City, a misguided attempt to climb aboard the Prince bandwagon. For the first time Teena Marie was churning out product and it showed.
Naked to the World was a back-to-basics album. Intimate and closely scaled, the LP had an emotional weight the bloated Emerald City lacked. With soulful songs like “Ooh La La La,” Marie was concentrating on her strengths and succeeding.
Ivory, her latest album, is a direct result of that confidence. “Here’s Looking at You” is another funk-rap hybrid. “Sugar Shack” begins with a man reciting tributes to such musical legends as Sarah Vaughan and Charlie Parker over a jazzy orchestration with Teena Marie’s scatting and segues into an all-out dance jam with an outrageous cameo by Bernadette Cooper. “If I Were a Bell” and “Miracles Need Wings to Fly” are typically sumptuous torch songs. “Mr. Icecream” is the obligatory Teena "cutesy" track, a punning song that only she can get away with. Here she dishes out every frozen allusion you can think of. Every.
Where Teena Marie has succeeded is in exploding stereotypes. She isn’t your typical white girl trying to sound Black nor is she promoted in that freak-show fashion. Marie isn’t part of that glossy urban-contemporary scene. She’s one with the culture, as gutbucket as she can be. Hers isn’t a minstrel act or an approximation of Norman Mailer’s White Negro myth. Her music isn’t wrapped in the guise of homage like a George Michael. It’s a logical outgrowth from a woman immersed in a sea of Blackness and enjoying the swim.
Teena Marie’s ninth album Ivory is another chapter in the continuing saga of one of music’s most idiosyncratic performers. Tunes by this professional multihyphenate (singer-producer-musician-songwriter-arranger) contain such disparate influences as Marvin Gaye, Nikki Giovanni, Stevie Wonder and, of course, her mentor and frequent duet partner, Rick James.
Marie’s albums have always been an interesting mixture of flower-child lyricism, unabashed romanticism, street-wise posturing within a neo-traditional R&B/urban structure. In other words, homegirl wants you to cry a little, make love a lot, then party afterwards.
Much like Wonder, she’s a classicist; her music seems to evoke rather than provoke. A Marie production is professional in the highest sense of the word. The sound is crisp. The ballads are replete with gorgeous harmonies (Irons in the Fire’s title track, It Must Be Magic’s “Portuguese Love.”) The dance tracks pump with the rhythm section out front, augmented by melodious keyboards and a light sweetening of strings (Irons in the Fire’s “I Need Your Lovin’” and Lady T’s “Behind the Groove.”) The self-proclaimed Lady Tee isn’t interested in breaking new ground; she’s a refurbisher, a nurturer. Her songs are the progeny of the past. They’re subliminal aural candy.
Her career can be divided into two periods: her internship at Motown and her attempts at crossover marketability at Epic. Her first album, Wild and Peaceful bore the distinctive touch of its producer Rick James but the LP seemed more a James project than a Teena Marie one. Except for “I’m a Sucker for Your Love,” Marie’s personality didn’t come through. The result was listenable but disposable.
The follow-up Lady T, produced by Richard Rudolph, was much better. It contained the blueprint for future Teena Marie albums: start the first side with a long dance cut and slowly wind down till it’s time to flip the record. Here was her first outstanding single, “Behind the Groove” and superb slow jam, the introspective “Aladdin’s Lamp.”
“Aladdin’s Lamp” was the prototype of what would become the Teena Marie ballad: an overflow of dense imagery sung with an innocent romanticism. In anyone else’s hands (or voice) “Aladdin’s Lamp” would’ve been utter drivel but because Marie believes what she’s singing and understands what the song is about in relation to her personal views, she becomes convincing. Like Gaye and Wonder, Marie is basically an uncoverable artist. With them, one must listen to their records as a whole for it is their voices that give their songs conviction.
The next two albums, Irons in the Fire and It Must Be Magic, were Marie’s first self-productions and followed the Rudolph formula to a Tee. Both were entertaining and contained many worthwhile cuts. Besides the Magic jam “Square Biz” - with her quintessential line “You’ve heard a boatload of other ladies rap/but they ain’t got nothing on me” - there was Fire’s sensual “You Make Love Like Springtime” and Magic’s “Portuguese Love.” These two discs, together with the incendiary duet on James’ Street Songs, “Fire and Desire,” showed Marie as a comer. They seemed warm-ups for her Talking Book or What’s Going On. Instead, there was a contract dispute with Motown and her career became Epic in label only.
Robbery, her first album for Epic, was, with the exception of “Casanova Brown,” unmemorable. Starchild seemed a smooth recovery with “Lovergirl,” “Out on a Limb” and the very best of the Marvin Gaye tributes, “My Dear Mr. Gaye.” But all forward motion ceased with Emerald City, a misguided attempt to climb aboard the Prince bandwagon. For the first time Teena Marie was churning out product and it showed.
Naked to the World was a back-to-basics album. Intimate and closely scaled, the LP had an emotional weight the bloated Emerald City lacked. With soulful songs like “Ooh La La La,” Marie was concentrating on her strengths and succeeding.
Ivory, her latest album, is a direct result of that confidence. “Here’s Looking at You” is another funk-rap hybrid. “Sugar Shack” begins with a man reciting tributes to such musical legends as Sarah Vaughan and Charlie Parker over a jazzy orchestration with Teena Marie’s scatting and segues into an all-out dance jam with an outrageous cameo by Bernadette Cooper. “If I Were a Bell” and “Miracles Need Wings to Fly” are typically sumptuous torch songs. “Mr. Icecream” is the obligatory Teena "cutesy" track, a punning song that only she can get away with. Here she dishes out every frozen allusion you can think of. Every.
Where Teena Marie has succeeded is in exploding stereotypes. She isn’t your typical white girl trying to sound Black nor is she promoted in that freak-show fashion. Marie isn’t part of that glossy urban-contemporary scene. She’s one with the culture, as gutbucket as she can be. Hers isn’t a minstrel act or an approximation of Norman Mailer’s White Negro myth. Her music isn’t wrapped in the guise of homage like a George Michael. It’s a logical outgrowth from a woman immersed in a sea of Blackness and enjoying the swim.
January 27, 2010
Teddy, Teddy, Teddy
In the land of rhythm & blues, if Smokey Robinson was the master of romance, Marvin Gaye the king of eroticism and Barry White the maestro of sensuality then Teddy Pendergrass was the sultan of straight-up, sweaty, satin-sheet sex. (This is the man who over the course of a triptych of sensational sultry slow jams - "Come Go With Me," "Close The Door" and "Turn Out The Lights") proposed breaking out the candles, some boiling oils and, if that wasn't enough, promised to reach into his bag of tricks and pull out 'a little bit more.' He also asked his prospective partner at the end of "Close" to let him 'do do do do.' Insert easy joke here.) As terrific as those tunes were, they only give a hint of Pendergrass' greatness and influence. (About the latter, all I can say is when Teddy decided to sport a cowboy hat and shearing jacket on the rear cover of his 1978 LP "Life Is A Song Worth Singing," a week after it came out I spotted brothers of all shapes, sizes and shades wearing western garb all over El Barrio and Harlem.) As a singer, Pendergrass was simply superb. His authoritative, supple baritone first came to prominence in the early Seventies as the lead singer of Harold Melvin and the Blue Notes on Kenny Gamble and Leon Huff's Philadelphia International. (Got all that? Good because there's gonna be a test later.) In Pendergrass, songwriters/producers Gamble & Huff found - with the possible exception of the O'Jays' Eddie Levert - the perfect voice for their compositions. And what songs they were! From uptempo jams like "The Love I Lost," "Don't Leave Me This Way," and - best of all - "Bad Luck" to ballads like "If You Don't Know Me By Now" to message music like "Wake Up Everybody," Pendergrass' powerful voice and percussive phrasing - he was a former drummer - transformed these tunes into classics. In 1977, after leaving Melvin and the Blue Notes allegedly due to dissension and jealousy within the group, he found instant solo success with a terrific eponymous LP featuring "I Don't Love You Anymore" and "The More I Get, The More I Want." (The rumored rift between Melvin, the nominal leader of the group, and Pendergrass, the true voice of the Blue Notes brought an added edge to the three-way duets between them and Sharon Paige: "Hope That We Can Be Together Soon" and "You Know How To Make Me Feel So Good.") By that time, he'd been transformed into a bonafide sex symbol replete with special concerts designated 'for ladies only.' (Just listen to his live double CD "Teddy Live Coast-to-Coast" to hear the unbridled passion and unleashed excitement of these shows. Talk about aural sex.) But the hoopla served to obscure Pendergrass' brilliance. He was a great singer and songs like "Is It Still Good To Ya," "Love T.K.O.," "It's Time For Love", and especially "My Latest, Greatest Inspiration" with his falsetto coda proved it. (Not to forget to mention two excellent duets with the diminutive Stephanie Mills: "Two Hearts" and "Feel The Fire" which featured Mills' unforgettable moan of 'Teddy. Teddy, Teddy.') Then, tragically, in 1982, Pendergrass was paralyzed in an auto accident. After a lengthy recuperation period, he left Gamble & Huff for Elektra Records. There he made some fine LPs and although he lacked the booming power of his halcyon days, he still had enough sex appeal left in the vocal tank to show them youngsters how to do it. (That alone was reason enough to be chosen by director Alan Rudolph as the musical voice of seduction on his great film "Choose Me.")Then musical tastes changed and Pendergrass slowly faded out of the picture. (It's one of the continuing shames of America that far too many times an artist of color must to die before his/her professional output is even partially appreciated or taken seriously.) Let us then use his passing to celebrate his brilliance. Plan an intimate rendezvous with a special someone, break out the bubbly, light the incense and the scented candles, lay out the rose petals and the oils, dim the lights and put the man they called Teddy Bear on the stereo and let nature take its course. (In other words, do do do do.) It's a just tribute to a terrific - and terrifically underrated - artist.
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