Tune Musing

Very rarely do I feel so moved by a film that I am compelled to write about it. I can only pray that “Thunder Soul” gets the attention and accolades it so very much deserves for so simply relaying an experience I would liken to a perfect American fairy tale. Not only is the story of Kashmere High School’s Stage Band an inspiring tale for African Americans, but for all Americans in general. The story is not alone where the sensation lies, but in the blistering tempos so perfectly and powerfully executed by the Kashmere Stage Band at their height from 1968-1977 in Houston, Texas.

The documentary centers around Musical Director, Conrad O. Johnson. You initially learn that he was in no small way a father figure for most of the band members, and his marriage to wife “Bertie” was a model of love, respect, and stability. In the film, we meet “Prof” (as they called him) at 92, ten years after losing his wife. He is still sharp as a tack, if a little fragile. The story is told by all; as they return 35 years later to perform again for the “Prof.” 

From the beginning of the documentary, I was immediately struck with emotion as the Reunion Coordinator and Alumni Band Musical Director, Craig Baldwin begins to tell the story. The beauty of this film lies in its utter honesty, and absence of any overt tools to manipulate its viewers into relating to its characters. It simply tells a story through the people who experienced it, and to say it is powerful is a tragic understatement. It frames the period of the Band’s glory as one of progress and righteousness for Black culture in America, and holds to this theme, forgoing (for the most part) any focus on negative racial themes of the time. It was not typical for an all-Black stage band to sweep these competitions at the time, but it seems that no one could deny the greatness of this band, and all supported it. They tell of winning the prestigious Mobile Jazz Festival competition in Mobile, Alabama in 1972, and how the judges deliberated for an hour before declaring Kashmere Stage Band the winner. The judges initially wanted to award the trophy to two bands, but Prof pushed them to make a decision. The band members recall they announced the winner reluctantly and without enthusiasm, likely insinuating the reluctance to award the trophy to a Black band. This part of the documentary also highlights George Wallace’s worst moments (he did change his tune late in life), and the Band’s discomfort in Mobile with him as Governor.

This segment struck a particular chord with me, as I am from Mobile. I was born in 1977, and have grown up entirely naive to racism as I was never exposed those attitudes in my immediate upbringing. It’s opportunities like this that I have to point out that Mobile is not an entirely backwards place, and has its tiny pockets of progressive tolerance. That said, unfortunately the Mobile Jazz Festival was defunct by the time I was in high school.

Aside from the context, the music itself is beyond remarkable. The band started out playing jazz orchestra arrangements, but Prof soon noticed the kids’ need to assimilate the popular music of the time. After rehearsals they would jam on their own, so Conrad decided to pen some arrangements of popular music by artists such as Sly and James Brown. He added choreography to the numbers, and POW. He created a world-renown stage band. “Thunder” is a most adequate description for this band’s sound: the energy of teenagers paired with intricate arrangements and boggling tempos to create an onslaught of perfect sound that leaves one struck, shocked. My sole response is tears, as I can barely process the joy from these performances.

Not only did the Kashmere Stage Band perform arrangements of popular music, but Conrad penned several originals for a large scale barrage of jazz funk power. “Zero Point” is among my favorites, as well as “Headwiggle.” I agree with Prof that while these recorded tracks are remarkable, it is the live performance that really drives the point. Many live tracks are included on the comprehensive collection, Texas Thunder Soul, 1968-1974.

The personal accounts of the Alumni Band, some professional musicians, some new to their instruments after 35 years of abandonment, are poignant and often very humorous. The first number they rehearse together elicits a sense of pride and nostalgia, but quickly followed by the realization that they had a lot to improve upon. The final performance is nearly perfect, and includes a baffling circular breathing feat of a note held on saxophone for what seems like a decade. 

Prof suffered a mild heart attack shortly before the performance. He clearly holds on to hear it; as they explain to him in his hospital bed what they’re preparing, he is touched and visibly overjoyed. While his face is lacking animation, the pride is still visible as he lifts his chin during the performance. He passes away two days later. 

The story of a single man and his wife inspiring a group of teens to perform at a level on par with professional recording artists is inspiring in itself. The Band’s success further enabling the rest of the school to excel in all areas, sports and academics, is proof of this inspiration. The fact that this all was accomplished by a Black band, at a Black school, in the dawn of Black power and pride is principally remarkable and serves as a model for all Americans. It represents core ideals of discipline, honor, self-respect, and gratitude that deserve renewed attention in today’s society. All things are possible, and true leaders exist. Praise to Jamie Foxx, executive producer, and director Mark Landsman for providing a film that lets these ideals shine without the dark shadow of flaw for unnecessary contrast.

I sat down with Bay Area rapper, Raashan Ahmad last week to toast Dr. King and pick his brain over big bowls of pasta. I was introduced to him through Adam Theis when he arranged some horn parts for a track on Raashan’s last album, For What You’ve Lost. I listened to the track, “Beautiful/Ugly” and knew I needed to hang with the guy. About a year later, we meet in the Mission.

I prepared some topics to explore but was relieved to find that I did not need to refer to them often, as the conversation was as natural as one could hope for. He greeted me with literal open arms, and a tight hug that immediately reflected the ingenuous sentiment of his lyrics. Having trekked all the way over from the East Bay, I offered him a drink. He shrugged and opted for a vodka version of my martini. Not an order I expected, or what he expected for that matter, as he admitted to feeling it later at dinner when I tried to order a bottle of wine. We instead went for just a glass each. Again, this gentle soul presents.

After we reverently toasted Martin Luther King, Jr. and his contributions, I segued into the initial, biographical stuff. Turns out we share a bi-coastal experience: born in Trenton, New Jersey, he was soon moved to Los Angeles with his older brother and parents, where he would remain for most of his life. He learned to rap from his older brother, also an MC, but really felt the call while spending a year in Boston in his mid-twenties.

He mentions moving out East with a “raver girlfriend.” In LA, he’d been exposed to lots of beats, but it wasn’t until he fell into hanging in the campus cafeteria with some Berklee College of Music kids that he actually heard and connected with live drums. This was an idea that I could barely understand, coming from the south and being exposed to Mardi Gras and huge marching bands from birth. It is eye-opening to consider that people may only know produced sound, particularly with our compressed, high range, digital music obsession. Actually feeling the drums’ vibrations is something I believe actually connects us as humans to music through the craft. Otherwise, music becomes just something to be consumed. We quickly fell into discussing our mutual love of collecting vinyl records, as evidenced in his track, “In Love With Wax.”  We smiled on favorites, Lonnie Liston Smith and Joe Farrell. Swooned over CTI.

Prior to meeting Raashan, I had only For What You’ve Lost to consult for information about him, and after meeting him I understand that he’s indeed created a very representative body of work. What most appealed to me about the album was its apparent positivity and light, but upon further listen and calling on my own experiences, you find a consistent theme like that of “Beautiful/Ugly;” one of gratitude that is only born of struggle. We delicately glossed over confirmation of this as not only a personal theme, and he referred to a dark period surrounding the loss of his mother. Respecting his privacy, I steered to discussing the musical aesthetic aspect of this theme. Raashan’s ideal lies in joyous beats, full of light, punctuated by a knock and a little bitterness. I likened it to that bittersweet quality of Stevie Wonder’s and Earth, Wind, & Fire’s music. So often with these artists, the instrumentation lifts you up as the lyrics break your heart.

I consider using this interview with Raashan as documentation of my deeper foray into Bay Area hip hop, as I saw this positive, thoughtful content as typical of contemporary music I’ve experienced from this area, such as Tower of Power and Santana, and current groups such as the Jazz Mafia collective. But then I remembered that Too Short is also out of Oakland. I will continue to explore this duality further in Tune Musing, however also concurrent with much of this particular evening’s discussion. Duality, balance, gratitude, and struggle. 

As we prattled along effortlessly over spontaneous Italian dinner, I recall with furrowed mental brow that five minutes into the interview he mentions that “emoting and relating to people is a learned skill” for Raashan. He claims he’d generally rather be huddled in a corner somewhere. While I understand that he’s got a gentle nature, I would hardly peg him as shy. But upon asking him my standard question of all vocalists and MCs, he lit up our dark corner of the bar, still blushing around a huge smile. I asked him what his “AHA!” moment was, when he truly believed he needed to continue this path as a dedicated profession. He very simply relayed to me that it happened when Santana sought him out after a performance at the Fillmore. I gawked at the answer and we giggled together like girls fresh in the moment. When Bay Area Royalty comes to your dressing room to tell you that you have a gift that needs to be shared with the world… I think most folks would giggle at the very least. Raashan just takes it in, all over again, with a humble graciousness at the table. Grinning and unable to finish the rest of his martini.

And share his gift with the world, he has. This last October he experienced a very warm and enthusiastic reception all over Europe.

As for the US, garnering that same love has been a little tougher. It’s a puzzling but common lament among many musicians on the up and coming. There is a range of possible reasons, and I plan to explore these through interviews with both American and European musicians in future posts. Stay tuned. And support your local music scene, wherever you are.

Raashan Ahmad has also been associated with Crown City Rockers for years, and is currently collaborating with all sorts of folks; like this fresh new video/track with J Boogie’s Dubtronic Science, also featuring local queen, Aima the Dreamer and remixed by Egyptian Lover. He anticipates finishing his new album in a couple of weeks, to be released around April of 2012. You’ll hear all about it here when it drops….

I have foregone Halloween festivities and am actually sober and sane enough to articulate my reflections on my favorite month of the year. This October I’ve seen some good music, and developed a pretty disgustingly romantic gratitude for everything and everyone in the world. So it’s been heavy.

Beginning back down on the Gulf Coast the first week, I dove headlong into my favorite festival season for the region. In Gulfport, Mississippi the Island View Casino hosted an incredible free concert dubbed “Groove on the Gulf,” with the Funky Meters and Dr. John headlining. Also on the bill were fellow indigenous favorites, Kermit Ruffins and the Hot 8 Brass Band. Normally a lineup like this would garner pretty steep ticket prices, but this event was completely free and thereby tremendously exciting as the stage was located outdoors just right across the street from the beach. Beers were a modest $4 a piece, and cocktails $5. I scored two really great, long-sleeved t-shirts for $20. Even the garage parking was free. As a current resident of San Francisco, this situation pretty much made my head explode.

I was in the center of my homeland, the Gulf Coast strip from Mobile, Alabama to New Orleans (also the entire width of Hurricane Katrina). The coastal view is wide and clear, not quite scenic but simple. A few old oak trees survived Katrina, which is pretty astounding considering whole casino boats were pushed miles inland in this area, and they penetrate the simple, horizontal lines. They’re these lonely and battered, moss-covered reminders. They curved and bent around the stage and framed the scene of classic cars, bikes, and colorful people, as it was also Cruise the Coast that weekend. It is not often one stumbles into this kind of southern, coastal heaven. Being accompanied by three of my oldest and dearest friends surely didn’t hurt, either. 

I have to share this one specific joy from the event: there was a super salty fellow with a leather-tanned, square jaw in standard biker gear feeling the show more than anyone in the joint. One could easily see that he was not under the influence of anything but the groove, and he literally appeared to be channeling the music. Through a series of tiny but earnest pelvic thrusts, closed eyes, and pure enjoyment, he enhanced the experience threefold for all of us. I have always enjoyed witnessing the unfettered “feeling it” of others. Particularly if accompanied by some interpretive dance, and punctuated by a red bandana in the back pocket. 

So we put the sun down with Dr. John, and made the difficult decision to skip the Funky Meters (whom we’d all seen several times), and jump in the car back to Mobile. In Mobile, Bayfest was in full swing. Bayfest is absolutely one of my favorite music festivals outside of the New Orleans Jazz & Heritage Festival and French Quarter Festival. It’s big enough to incite some powerful buzz and enthusiasm, but just small enough to be able to maneuver the crowds with a fair amount of ease. I’ve seen many epic R&B, funk, and soul acts at Bayfest over the years, including Brick, The Barkays, The Ohio Players, The Gap Band, The O’Jays, and The Time. (I’ve expounded on this sensation before.) But this year my attention was oddly enough not completely devoted to funk and R&B. This year we raced back from Mississippi to catch Duran Duran in the flesh.

Did I mention the weather? Absolute perfection; 72 degrees with a warm breeze. Cool enough to get through a tallboy without it getting hot, but warm enough for linen and tank tops. As we convened with my dear cousin and another two friends I’ve known since single digits in my hometown of Mobile, we all shivered in anticipation to see a band that all of us discovered and revered as mere youngsters. Our friendships were born to this music. My sister’s copy of Rio introduced me to Patrick Nagel, and perhaps my affinity for nail salons.

They blasted through nearly every hit they’ve ever had, and it was one of the best pop shows I’ve ever seen. I nearly had a heart attack during “The Reflex” and single handedly initiated a massive crowd chant for “Rio” at encore time. I lost myself to utter girlhood joy, and skipped and hopped and sloshed my Miller Lite tallboy all over myself. If I were a better journalist, I’d include the finer points of the performance (John Taylor is still a beast on bass), but they’re lost on the overall sentiment of the day. My struggle with nostalgia over informative content continues…. I cannot forget to mention the two hand-signers interpreting the music onstage. I have never seen such a moving performance, barring the salty fellow earlier in the day. 

I returned home to San Francisco in love with the universe. Refreshed from visiting with loved ones and basking in my home turf, I feel an even deeper connection to my peers and environment here. I take inventory of all I love and appreciate a few times a day, and make a conscious effort to enjoy what appears to be the best of times. I stopped off at my local on the way home from work the night after I returned home, greeted by a hug that lifted me off of the ground, just outside the door. I beamed through a gin gimlet and found myself in a heated discussion with some gentlemen about Michael Jackson, and whether his status as “entertainer” or “musician” was more accurate. One shook out from the bunch, and I made him a mixtape just this morning. October is also historically a month for huge romance. 

To crown this pinnacle October (2011 goes down in the books in red ink), the Alabama Crimson Tide is crushing the SEC. While watching them slaughter University of Tennessee (for a background on the intense rivalry, click here), I hear from a friend in town. Eric Bolivar of Anders Osborne invites me to the the show they’re opening at the Independent, where Karl Denson’s Tiny Universe is to play the entire classic album, Sticky Fingers. I jumped at the opportunity. My day, this month, was really testing my heart and adrenal gland.

Eric’s solid and versatile backbone deftly supported the silty sounds of Anders’ guitar and Carl Dufrene on bass (whose stage presence is reminiscent of the Nuge). More technically sophisticated than your general swamp music, this power trio pulls off the deconstruction necessary for the raw to find its sweet spot in a classically skilled context. This is one of those popular ideals I’ve mentioned before, that few can successfully accomplish. I tend to highlight this fairly consistently.

When I first heard that Karl Denson was going to tackle Sticky Fingers, I found it initially to be less than an obvious choice of covers. But as I watched Karl hop around the stage, I recognized the same joyous, childlike sentiment I’d felt a couple of weeks prior at the Duran Duran show. It’s the sensation you feel as a kid when you first realize how deliciously fun and naughty it is to dance around naked in front of the mirror; not exactly sexual, much more innocent, but carefree and delicious frolicking. And it’s in this same vein that I believe musicians like Karl and many before and after select their covers. 

This sentiment reminded me of a recent discovery, a real gem. An old childhood friend in New Orleans contacted me with the exciting news that he’d discovered that Neil Young and Rick James had been in a band together in the mid 60s. (I’ll pause while you try to wrap your head around that.) It’s true. The Mynah Birds recorded an album with Motown that was scrapped when Rick James was arrested for dodging the draft. There is little information on the band, but what I can surmise from bits and pieces is that Rick may have met Neil in Canada while “dodging,” but were definitely in Detroit for the recording at Motown in ‘65-‘66. (I’ve located the lost tracks from another pal in Mobile; holler if you want.) 

So it’s said that Rick just wanted to be like Mick Jagger, and the band modeled themselves after the Stones. James’ voice is so young and wistful on the these recordings, and it’s that same longing I could perhaps recognize in Denson’s performance of what could be assumed to be one of his favorite bodies of work, as it is that of many.

Slamming open the album with “Brown Sugar,” I saw that Anders Osborne has been incorporated into the Tiny Universe for this tour. It all makes sense as he compliments KDTU’s horn laden, jazz dance repertoire with his filthy juke sensibility. New to the Universe, DJ Williams (guitar) brings a tight but slightly stiff performance. Perhaps it’s my sadness at the moving on of age old KDTU guitarist (Brian Jordan) to new things of his own, but I’m not sure Williams has completely nestled into the group just yet. I did detect a sprinkle of Isley in his tone at one point that does intrigue me, and will hold my interest in future performances.

“You’ve Got to Move” showcased some great vocals (in addition to his more obvious talents) from Anders, but I was disappointed in “Wild Horses.” I wasn’t connecting with the tempo very well, was a bit distracted by the echo on the drum machine. Or what I interpreted as a drum machine at the time. The song felt thin. I’m kinda partial to Harriet Wheeler’s cover of the tune, and perhaps a bit tough on this one. 

My favorite track of the night by no small margin had to be “Sister Morphine.” Perhaps also my favorite track on the original album, this seemed to be the best interpretation of all of the skills on the stage, and represented the composition of the entire evening overall. Anders’ slide guitar fell in seamlessly, and the extended jam format gave KDTU the room to stretch out and do what they do best, take you higher. Sometimes the most obvious is the most essential in a progression such as this evening’s line up. As they wrapped up with “Moonlight Mile,” I was then awarded yet another surprise: a whole other KDTU set. I garnished the evening with a Mission Dog.

The month finishes today with the composition of one seriously swoon-worthy playlist. I am both white-knuckled and stoked for November. 

After much catharsis and nostalgic sorting of my aesthetic, I close up my veins momentarily to address one of the most progressive and inspiring concepts to have emerged from the Bay Area. For over a decade now, The Shotgun Wedding Quintet (under the Jazz Mafia umbrella) has been reconciling its musty, old soul and sensibility with its sagging pants and skateboard-bound adventurousness. Comprised of three core composers: rapper Dublin, Joe Cohen on keys, synthesizers, and saxophone, and Adam Theis on bass and trombone; their sound is currently perfected with the help of PDubl on drums and DJ Teeko on turntables. Their latest album, Tales from the Barbary Coast, is a masterpiece perhaps a century and change in the making.

To call the Jazz Mafia eclectic is a droll understatement. Founded in diversity, the collective of 50-60 Bay Area musicians represent the most skilled of each of the music “cliques” in and around San Francisco, from symphony to salsa. The Shotgun Wedding Quintet performed its first poetry at Bruno’s one empty night in 2002, unwittingly becoming a cornerstone of the future collective to form. I had the pleasure to attend one of those first performances; they all donned their finest suits and Dublin broke out a little electric violin. I asked Adam post performance, “Who’s baby is it?” as it was quite a departure from his other projects at the time with the same folks, Cannonball and Realistic. His answer, “It’s all of ours, really.” But it’s quite a large fingerprint that Dublin leaves, as the writer and performer of all lyrics. I use this word very carefully, exclusively, and deliberately: Dublin is indeed, a poet. 

A wordsmith cultivates an entire sensual experience of smells, textures, temperature, energy. Dublin creates a narrative that drives the continuum of the entire album through snapshots of theater and poignant human experience. The cadence of his vocal spectrum ranging from swagger to staccato evokes the likes of Rat Packers, Irish pub master, and auctioneer. He’s damn fonky too. And that’s where he’s blazing a path and style all his own. 

The album begins with “Vertigo,” a haunting interpretation of Alfred Hitchcock’s classic film, filmed in San Francisco. Citing historic sites from around the city and recreating visuals from the actual movie, Dublin invites us to imagine the perspective of the pursuant of mysterious women. It sets the tone of this hip hop album in the vein of musical theater. But don’t think there’ll be no rap songs. There are plenty of tributes to a “golden era of rap,” as the album’s accompanying book explains. A full account of each track’s creation, the lyrics, and concise, relevant commentary are offered in the companion booklet to the album. The foggy, foreboding images of below the Golden Gate Bridge that wrap the front and back covers articulate the tone without commanding it. As do the accounts and commentary it contains, a precarious balance to achieve. The listener is still allowed enough room for his or her own associations to endear themselves to the tracks. I, for one, am currently renewing my vows with San Francisco these days, and this album makes my heart swell like watching Dirty Harry in Washington Square. 

The album’s second track, “Bridge & Tunnel” details the plight of an outsider’s reckless, drunken night in the city; more specifically North Beach, the area of SF formerly known as the Barbary Coast, filled with strip joints and Italian fare (see a live rendition here). It’s light and humorous, and Joe Cohen brings some very appropriate synth to the situation, while Teeko loops a compelling and somewhat rustic guitar.

My most beloved track of the album is “Catch On.” Falling directly in the middle of the track list, I feel its placement is quite deliberate as it stretches out and blends the periods over a smooth ride in a ‘66 Impala up to a joint with little, red glass votives on each white, tablecloth-covered two-top. Touches of salsa piano creep in, while the bass lines and drums recall the strong and ever-present influence of Stevie Wonder. (We know about Jazz Mafia and Stevie?) The horn arrangements display the maturity this group has clawed its way to achieve over the last decade; I feel it could actually be the denouement of the album, despite its non-traditional, non-chronological placement. 

“Shanghai Kelly” tells the story of the infamous Barbary Coast character over a couple of lumpy and reluctant bass lines. “Sixth Street Hotel” details a newcomer’s first dwelling in the city, an oft-unsavory residential hotel in the city’s Market and Sixth area. While the track is compelling with its vivid descriptions (“smacking her open palms against the wall”), and rising action, the live performance of this piece cannot be topped. Dublin unleashes the crescendo as the tenants begin to panic upon evacuating the burning hotel, and it never fails to stop me in my tracks and even startle with the goosebumps.

Adam Theis relays his satisfaction with the album’s recording in that in most ways, it plays just like the live performance. With minimal editing and mixing post recording, his intentions prove successful. Recorded in large, concrete tunnels that once held large cannons on the Pacific coast in the Marin Headlands, as well as in an old church in Oakland, the venues channel not only an ominous and foreboding audio quality but also contribute the energy of an entirely different time. 

As many of the members of SWQ were also rehearsing and recording the Jazz Mafia Symphony’s second work, The Emperor Norton Suite while recording Barbary Coast, it is clear that the compositions were heavily influenced and born of one another. Emperor Norton is another urban legend of San Francisco history, and the Suite also reveals itself as a narrative. The Shotgun Wedding Quintet has taken on a theme that could have easily gone trite on a hip hop album, but succeeds blending mystery, homage, assimilation, and innovation into a completely cohesive body of work. Tales of the Barbary Coast is a much lauded and rare occurrence in our impatient world of cherry-picked singles and iTune playlists. 

It is again the birthday of a massive influence on my generation and beyond. Michael Jackson was a tragic hero and has hopefully found peace. This is a collection of thoughts I pulled together over a few glasses of wine and many tears the day he passed, originally titled, “Mike & Me.”

You should now have plenty of sentimental, self-indulgent dribble to have deduced but only a facet of my aesthetic. I am currently collecting my thoughts on some new music from the Bay Area; be sure to check in on it soon.

So my mother calls me and leaves this message on my voicemail, “Your youth is officially over. Michael Jackson is dead. Wondering if you’d heard.”

Of course, I’d not been able to answer her call because I was fielding millions of phone calls and text messages and emails and facebook poignance. It’s an understatement to say that our generation is taking this kinda rough. We all have a lot to share about our relationship with Mike. 

When I was six years old, the only thing on my list to Santa was Thriller. I cared about nothing else, and talked about it incessantly at school. When the flat, roughly 12” x 12” square appeared in tacky paper beneath the tree, I swore it was something else. I had built it up in my mind to be as big as my entire torso, enough to actually wrap my arms around. My sister, Louise had worked at Camelot Music in Bel-Air Mall and brought it home for me. To tell you the truth, I actually spotted it in a bag hanging on her bedroom doorknob prior to the Big Day, but couldn’t really believe it was actually about to be mine to behold.

I learned to use our multiple record players at around four years old, having been taught how to lay the needle down ever-so-gingerly on the smooth line in between songs. Albums were something to be handled like china, and respected. I remember learning to hold them between my finger tips on the edges, fearing for my life if I dropped one. Already in heavy rotation at this age were Earth, Wind & Fire’s Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Sergio Mendes & Brasil ‘66 Fool on the Hill, and Prince Controversy. I spent countless hours alone in my room listening to these and learning every little bit of the space between notes and the scant breath here and there. But these were my family’s records, and Thriller was mine. All mine.

I gazed at Michael with the big kitty and fell in love with him. Spending so much time alone in my room with this record at such a young age, he was literally one of my friends. Thriller always scared me a little, but I did huge can-can girl kicks to the bit he ripped off from Manu Di Bango in Wanna Be Startin Somethin. I dreamed over he and Paul McCartney (as my sister had taught me all of the Beatles’ names and their reverence not long ago), and wished I was the girl they fought over. Human Nature cultivated my first fantasies of a big city, and Lady In My Life just made be feel warm. I honestly felt I knew him. I decided he was my boyfriend, and when I announced it to my mother she discouraged me. So I decided he was my cousin, and I told everyone at school.

Whenever someone’s sister or brother would buy the album, I was notified. The kids in first grade at St. Ignatius in Mobile, AL were mystified. I received them graciously. And today I heard from schoolmates that I haven’t spoken to in years. 

Yeah, we shared a last name. But the intimacy I had with this first album of my very own can only describe the void a child can fill spending countless hours alone in her room, gazing out of the window and petting her Doberman, waiting to go play in the graveyard.

I couldn’t get too far into this little project without having to address my singular and poignant devotion to Earth, Wind & Fire. Maurice White’s smiling image brings a comfort to my soul that I could only compare to the long lost type I found in church as a child. I swoon to imagine how thrilling it must have been to see their performances in the mid 70s, as they were hitting the apex of their careers. Born in 1977, I gaze at any footage I can find get a hold of and just pine. One could easily state that early exposure to the Elements shaped the bulk of my aesthetic. I could take a more journalistic approach and tell their story, but instead I’ll tell you mine. I highly recommend Wax Poetics #47 for a full account of their rise to greatness. 

Much like my previous post regarding my earliest experiences with Prince, this love affair begins with bright, blurry recollections of parties in my parents’ home in Mobile, Alabama. More specifically associated with EWF are Christmas Day festivities. It’s loud; I am the youngest of seven children, and each sibling gets exponentially more talkative from myself on up the line, capping off with my boisterous and charming parents. My father had a booming, velvety, baritone singing voice. Mix in what Mother calls my “amniotic fluid,” lots (and lots) of Old Fashioneds. While a traditional Old Fashioned calls for muddling the fruit, John Jackson’s take just drops a slice of orange and a maraschino cherry or two in the glass. As a tot, I would request the fruit from everyone’s cocktails. (Mother enjoys relaying a quote from me as a teen, “She didn’t know what a real orange tasted like until she was 10 years old!”) Imagine how it’s loud, joyous, and I have a tiny-little-baby-buzz. My usual Christmas loot includes an array of Barbie/She Ra stuff, a new pair of roller skates, and some piece of audio entertainment, and it’s merchandised about the formal living room with a tastefully garish tree. My whole family is scattered about the house, and I am at the center of my most familiar and secure environment. I feel literally enveloped, banging around everyone’s legs. And I’m begging Daddy progressively through the day to pleeeeeeeease sing “Feet Like A Bear.” (more on that in another post)

Then the opening riffs from EWF’s cover of the Beatles’ “Got To Get You Into My Life” tumble out of the speakers into the din. To this day, those first few notes still elicit rapid heartbeat. It meant the party was in Full Swing. I can vaguely recall my mother two-stepping down the front hallway, heels clicking on the parquet floors, and Daddy dancing with me on the rug in the foyer where the chandelier cast rainbows all around the ivory moire wallpaper. It was literally magical. I can’t remember a more elated moment in all of my childhood, and I’ve been seeking to replicate this environment throughout my life ever since: love, family, laughter, music, and a nice buzz. Call it what you will. I call it beauty in general.

Beyond these first associations with the very theme music to my most joyous memories, my love and appreciation for EWF has grown as I experience all of the less scintillating moments in life. I recall reaching for the one record my family kept, The Best of Earth Wind & Fire Vol. I, as an early teen. My parents had divorced when I was 10, and I was now living alone with my mother. I became intensely nostalgic at this age, perhaps a little more than your average teen, due to being born 12 years after the sixth child, and never quite felt a part of the whole. I was obsessed with family history and old stories, and desperate to recreate them to include me. In my mind, EWF was both a conduit and a tether for my inclusion in a party that was winding to a close just as I arrived. I grew up through the hangover. (And it was a beast, but facilitated my identification with the blues.) The opening line of

“Do you remember…?”

from “September” felt like a dull ache and a warm bath all at the same time.

I would recall dancing in my parents’ shower listening to “Fantasy” around six years old, thinking the tune should be used for a cruise line advertisement, and also the following track on side one of that compilation, “Love Music.” I just felt like I should be on a boat when I heard those, around lots of Black people wearing all white. Those two tracks felt Caribbean to me, whether I could identify it that way at the time or not. The bass and guitar licks from “Love Music” felt like the smooth bounce of a boat over waves, and the vocal harmonies appeared to me as dozens of wide, bright smiles. “Fantasy” just sounded like a great vacation:

“…aaaand…as you STAY, for the PLAY, that the sea has in store for you,

glory life will see you through,

it’s your DAY, shining DAY,

all your dreams come truuuue…!”

And Philip Bailey’s falsetto then takes you off of the water into the heavens. At least that’s how I heard it, jumping around under a stream of water in my parents’ bathroom. I played these tunes as a teen to recall the whimsy of childhood, and help me recall my ability to fantasize during an otherwise extremely dark period of my life. 

In later years I began to see them in concert, even caught Maurice White do a couple of numbers in 1997, as Parkinson’s was beginning to take his dexterity, but never his light. His basic, open armed, two-step relayed a potent channel of the spiritual aspect of this music; the bulk, the vehicle. A few of the men in my life understood that the way to my heart was through EWF. A young man I had otherwise been blowing off offered to drive four hours from where he lived in Mobile, AL to my college town in Tuscaloosa (Roll Tide), and take me to see EWF with Teena Marie and Graham Central Station at Oak Mountain Theater in Birmingham, AL another hour away. I was moved. It was my first EWF concert, my one and only Maurice White viewing, and I will never forget it. (For more recollections of southeastern r&b shows in the fall, click here.) My big college boyfriend gifted me a rather shabbily produced double CD compilation that exposed me to tunes like “In the Stone” and less popular tracks, “Can’t Let Go” and “And Love Goes On.” Maurice telling me,

“Neeevah, nevah my darling, neeevah you’ll be alone”

still brings a tear to my eye. While

“And loves goes on, all day long, your heart beats strong, as love goes on”

is a simple reminder that there is no end-all, be-all except for living and loving. (Plus the beginning always reminded me of the Doobie Brothers’ “What a Fool Believes.”) Ironically, the seemingly inversely themed “Can’t Let Go” is also about continuing to love through joy of that which is unconditional. When that same college boyfriend executed a diabolical attempt to destroy me (wish I was only being dramatic here), I vomited and cried for a month, then listened to “After the Love Has Gone” and cried my last tears. It was resolved from that very moment. 

There’s something about the point of view of the lyrics that seems to blend the voice of a friend, a lover, a parent, or God in its message. It makes you disregard the source of the message and just feel the message. I find that incredibly powerful, and unique to only a few artists, like Stevie and Donny.

I discovered Gratitude a few short years later. It was at this time that my appreciation of this music began to move from a level of instinctual poignance into a baffling appreciation for the musicianship on an entirely different level. Including White’s and Ramsey Lewis’ classic “Sun Goddess” and the absolutely scorching “New World Symphony,” my appetite for their instrumentals grew insatiable. To this day I put this album on, and folks go, “Jesus, who is this?” I am always immensely satisfied to tell them, “Earth Wind & Fire, my favorite band in the universe.” I only wish EWF included these tunes in current concert programming. Perhaps my only criticism. “New World Symphony” begins quietly, with soft plinkings on Maurice’s kalimba, drifts into Larry Dunn’s extra-terrestrial keys, and then suddenly punches the shit out of you in the face with mad driving drums and bass, honking at you with horn solos while the rhythm section climbs in intensity. It then settles into a speedy little simmer of percussion while Verdine starts in on his insanity. The climax approaches and then spits you over the top of a pyramid into a thousand sparkling pieces. Maurice yelps into the crowd, and the place’s state of utter color is palpable in this live recording.

Gratitude includes both live and studio tracks, and quite possibly my favorite EWF tune, the meticulous “Can’t Hide Love.” The barely detectable drumstick clicks just before the track begins take me back to being in my room again as a child (as it was the third track on the Best Of, Vol. I compilation), and also into my adult appreciation for tightness and tempo. Which brings me to a very special tune, “See the Light” off of That’s the Way of the World. The introduction is a glimpse into the utterly mad brilliance of Larry Dunn, Philip Bailey, (and an L. Anglin that I don’t know as much about). Intense, falsetto vocal harmonies over slightly ridiculous time signatures and urgent horn arrangements pour you into a truly beautiful, easy, near ballad. Clearly signifying the chaos of daily living, the intro serves as a perfect foil for the bliss and resolution of EWF’s overall sound, and theme of peace.

I have deliberately left Earth, Wind & Fire’s earliest albums for the most part, undiscovered by myself. I have listened to them, but have not yet purchased them. The breadth of their creations and collaborations have unfolded throughout my life at exactly the right moments, and I am waiting patiently for the right moment to get intimate with these albums….

Stay tuned for when I do.

As I begin to relay these next thoughts, I’m thinking my next focus in Tune Musing is an old classic; obvious, revered, and maybe even bordering on trite for the jaded. But I forget how narrow mine own experience may be. I mean, there could potentially be millions of people that don’t know that many of the best peri-gluteal performances in this universe and beyond have been inspired by, discovered in, opened, closed, and born of “Maggot Brain.” 

I am here to feed you the maggots in the mind of the universe, in the hopes that you will not be offended. Believers, feel it with me. Now, I feel this may be, again, an obvious statement: funk music in general is inherently about the sustenance of humanity. It is intuitively felt, and the varying pulse of its gently lagging throb or heavy John Henry trance leaves very few of us humans without response. It is at the backbone of this movement that you find Funkadelic, the complementary twin second cousin once removed of Parliament, and brainchild of George Clinton and many others.

Funkadelic developed out of the original formation of Parliament, then a suited-up doo-wop group formed out of Clinton’s barbershop in Plainfield, New Jersey. A few of the members simply didn’t want to wear the damn suits any longer and rebelled against the well rehearsed vocal solidarity of Parliament, and key guitarist Eddie “Maggot Brain” Hazel then found his way into the group. Funkadelic was more guitar heavy, and they found the loudest amps they could. Their sound was as ragged as their appearance, enhanced by their gritty attempts at spacey-sounding recordings with primitive equipment. 

The opening title track of the album of the same name, “Maggot Brain” begins with ominous wisdom. As the story goes, Clinton instructs Hazel in the studio, “Play like your mother just died.” What resulted is one of the most riveting nine minute guitar solos of all time. It is of this conjured catharsis that listeners find a common and unavoidable poignance. One of the most basic responses to feeling at this level is to well, reach out to one another. 

I often recall a very sweaty live performance of “Maggot Brain” at the Maritime Hall in San Francisco, back in 1996. Still a teenager, I recall hearing the first few notes slipping off of the strings and grasped the first half naked body, already pressed against me in the dense and fragrant crowd. Live renditions of this song tend to stretch beyond thirty minutes, and often times local guitarists are invited to plug in. This generally results in around 4-6 guitars, plus 2-3 bass guitars, all turned up to ridiculous. Making out with strangers under these conditions reaches entirely new heights, and I recommend this for everyone’s bucket list. 

“Let me slide a yard of tongue down your throat…

 there’s nothing wrong with that….”

If you don’t believe in bucket lists or have a steady, it is imperative that you purchase this full album for home use. Although for your first taste of the maggots, I also highly recommend locking yourself in the car on a dark rainy night and letting them wash over you. When my friend’s son began taking to guitar around eleven years old, after picking him up from basketball practice we sat in the driveway in front of his house. I told him he couldn’t say a word, and had to sit through the whole thing (sitting still for ten minutes is intense for an eleven year old). I cranked my standard Toyota system up as well as she could do without damage, and hit play. When it was all over, we sat in silence for a minute. All he could say was, “Oh my God. That was so bad.” While he was a little young to give the rest of the instructions, I suspect he’ll know to use this tool when the time is right. 

Maggot Brain, as well as Funkadelic’s first album, self-titled, may come as a surprise to folks that are only familiar with the likes of P-Funk big hits like, “Flashlight” and “Bop Gun.” These two albums are guttural, roots-laden, and downright country. They literally make you feel filthy. Most notably, they’re dark in places that cause you to reach out for the nearest consenting body and strive for the life force. 

“If you will suck my soul,

 I will lick your funky emotions….”

Perhaps a little background about me and my aesthetic is in order. I was born and raised in Mobile, Alabama, the seventh child of a very genteel but ahem, prolific man of 50; the third daughter of a Cajun Mardi Gras Queen, eleven years his junior. My exposure to music through their administration, in addition to my siblings’ , has gifted me with a wide breadth of appreciation from Gershwin to the Kinks. Reflecting on my initial musings as I was introduced to these things has proven to be an interesting study of my psyche, and hopefully entertaining enough for any reader. This is the first in a series….

My mother always called me her “sexy child” as I always made her uncomfortable with my musical choices from a very young age. The late-in-life love child of two troubled and exhausted people, I found my happiest childhood moments lost in sensational, swirly parties where music would blare and I would ultimately be banished upstairs to bed, always too soon. If I was lucky I had scored the fruit out of several empty old fashioneds, and slipped into dreamland as fuzzy samba vibrated through the green carpeted floor from below. It was upon the discovery of my sister’s copy of Prince’s Controversy at four years old, that my innocence shifted.

My two sisters that lived in the house were twelve and fourteen years older than I. The younger of the two comes home with this record, and I discovered her giggling with her friends as they unfolded the poster enclosed. Prince, clad in small bikini briefs, brazenly posed against the tiles in the shower. They tried to shield me from the image, but it was burned. It was then that I knew I had to hear this record. Soon it was in rotation with my other storybook accompaniments. I didn’t understand the lyrics specifically, but I knew it was sexy. I didn’t even know what sex was, but I knew it made me feel excited and naughty, and it had something to do with being naked. The sound of his self-conscious, but somehow unfettered, homemade, young girlish, synthesized, and conflicted funk became the core association of sex that continues in my mind to this day. 

In a couple of years I was reading well, and could read the track titles as well as the newspaper headlines and his “Rude Boy” lapel button on the album jacket. There was a nifty pun, “Annie Christian,” and the entire recitation of the Lord’s Prayer in the title track Controversy that I contemplated deeply. I was never troubled by it enough to discuss it with anyone else, even though I was in Catholic school. If anything, I found the mention of God normal and comforting. So when “Sexuality” commanded that 

“You don’t need no money

 You don’t need no clothes

 At the Second Coming

(squeal!)

 Anything goes!

 I’m okay as long as you are here with me 

 Sexuality

 Let your body be free”

I found this to be an exciting rendition of a great, naked, sexy party with God. 

It was the last song on side 2 that really gave me pause. Unlike the rest of the tracks, Prince’s precursor to internet slang substituted the proper “you” with “U.” Even as a first grader, this troubled the shit out of me. Why on earth were sensible adults misspelling things? On an album cover, no less! I never have gotten over this, but that’s another matter entirely. The last song of the album was my first favorite. It was the first to go on heavy rotation, as I delicately placed the needle on the smooth line one-two-three-four lines from the outside. Also the shortest tune on the album, always off to bed too soon, “Jack U Off.”

I would bounce around the room in circles, because the ditty would just light my ass up like an Easter basket full of candy. My sisters had caught me singing along, giggled, and decided it was okay because I thought he was singing “Drac-U-la.” It was once they were both away at college, leaving me alone with the album (perhaps I hid it?), that I began reading the titles. 

So beyond my complete disapproval of the misspelling, I tried to understand what this meant, “Jack U Off?” Understanding the vague context of sex about the album, I recalled a conversation I’d had once with Mama. She’d taken out a yellow legal pad, made some sketches, and explained the birds and bees to me with all of the proper words and diagrams. I further recalled one word that may have been shortened? Like the way he’d done “U” for “you?” I knew what ejaculation was, but I quickly dismissed this idea of what this song was about because what sensible adult would express something so crudely? It was like a child had written it, how preposterous! A few short years later, I confirmed my own horror. My instincts were dead on.

It is innate for me, the sense for what makes one feel a naked, sexy party with God is in order. Of course, we all have our own associations and different triggers for what stiffens the silly skin, but I have been making my mother and others squirm with my music choices for almost an entire lifetime. I consider this an asset, and I plan to share it here going forward. My thoughts and associations of spirituality with music are far from original, but perhaps amusing, and will ideally provoke one’s own examination of aesthetics, sexuality, and personal code or religion. From this we can examine our musical context, as well as how our responses affect music today and its creators’ livelihoods. 
 

…my focused efforts on developing my chops as a writer and critic. This blog will address all eras and genres of music, musicians, and surrounding issues. My dedication to supporting professional musicians and fostering individual thought leads me most recently to the Bay Area surrounding San Francisco, California, a small and potent pocket of eclecticism and progress. From this perspective I will share thoughts in parallel scope and passion.