Welcome to the Blog

Welcome to the blog.

Why does this phrase make me think of Blue Magic's "Welcome To The Club"? For two reasons: I just got back from Philadelphia, City of Brotherly Love (true true) "and Sisterly Affection," as one of my girlfriends is known to say. Philly is where Blue Magic got its start, blah blah bah. Philly is a happening spot these days... more on that later.

Second reason: I'm a product of the early disco years in New York, when "Welcome To The Club" was a dancefloor "hustle" record. Guess I'm giving away my age. But believe me when I say that I was a mere slip of a girl when I was sneaking into Nell Gwynne's, the Loft, the Buttermilk Bottom, and later going to Impanema's, Pegasus, the Colli Bron, Leviticus, Justine's, and the mecca of the Paradise Garage, among others.

As a South Bronx chica, I wanted to be slick and worldly, hip and happening at 15 and 16, and I just wanted to dance. Nobody I knew talked about going to the gym, doing yoga, or lifting weights back then. It was just putting on your disco purse with your lipgloss and your mad money and dancing for five hours straight, with or without a partner. And if I had to navigate the subways, the pre-sexual harrassment law negroes trying to cop a feel, the fascinating world of homosexual culture, the drugs in the bathrooms and the acid in the punch to get my dance on, that's what I did. And I have great memories. They're embedded with the music.

I've been re-living those years recently by reading this book "Love Saves The Day: A History Of American Dance Music Culture 1970 - 1979" by Tim Lawrence. It's a fascinating look back at New York's club culture after the '60s, and how "disco" grew and then died. The book is written from a mostly white gay male perspective, but it mentions many of the DJs, the clubs, and the records that I remember. It's the first book that I've read about dance music that really and truly captures the joy and abandon of the dancing itself, the power of the music to liberate people from their everyday selves and allow them to revel physically in the melody and the rhythm. For many people discos were about drinking or finding sex partners--only if you were a true dancer did you understand why Larry Levan of the Paradise Garage is still so revered.

Growing up in the Bronx meant I witnessed the birth of hip-hop as well, but it seemed to me a mostly male aggressive phenomenon that didn't capture my imagination as much as the orchestral romance of Philly International, the drama of Ecstasy Passion & Pain, the wisdom of Loleatta Holloway, the soulful pleading and breakdown of Eddie Kendricks' "Girl You Need A Change Of Mind." I heard Kool Herc spin, Grandmaster Flowers, and others. Rollerskated at the Empire Ballroom. Went to hip-hop parties. But I was about the dance, now known as disco. As usual, what began as a hip, underground, black/gay thang got co-opted for mass consumption with bad records, gimmicks, and tourists. Then the headbangers of the rock world--who couldn't snap their fingers to a beat if they wanted to--got together and shot disco dead.

Now it's 25 years later and I haven't danced as long, as creatively, or with as much sense of liberation or celebration as I did back then. I'll admit it: I miss the Nightlife, I miss the Boogie. It's so unfashionable to say so.

Anyway, was in Philly to witness the first Rhythm & Blues Foundation Pioneer Awards in three years. Very nice event, honoring the legendary artists who made great music, toured the country during times when segregation was still the law of the land, and many times did not get the royalties or the accolades their artistry deserved. Frankie Beverly & Maze -- who doesn't know or like their music? They had never really received any real honors, but Frankie was on stage to get his Pioneer Award. Barbara "Yes I'm Ready" Mason, still adorable, still in good voice, also honored. Chubby Checker, whose "The Twist" permanently altered dance floor dynamics; Bettye Lavette, who watched all her Detroit friends sign to Motown and become stars as she struggled for years to have her earthy R&B style heard; the brilliant songwriter and arranger Thom Bell whose astounding orchestrations made the Delfonics, Stylistics, and others sound so lush and multilayered; and the Delfonics themselves, La La means I Love YOU, my brothers.

Berry Gordy, looking like an aging rock star (clean! clean!) received a lifetime achievement award, and Philadelphia International's Gamble & Huff nearly swooned as they presented it, being as Gordy's Motown operation inspired them to soar with their own legendary musical imprint. Smokey Robinson and Patti LaBelle co-hosted; and as usual, Miss Patti was doing things her way, going off the script at the top of the show while Smokey tried to endure. I won't get all into her shenanigans--too much respect for her pipes (and LaBelle in their silver spacesuits dominated my imagination during the Disco Years)--but really. Someone needs to invent a pill for Diva Syndrome.

There are plans afoot for a major National Center For Rhythm & Blues to be established within Philadelphia within the next few years. As Gamble says, Not the home OF rhythm & blues, because many cities can lay claim to the title, but a home FOR rhythm & blues, a place where the music and its history can be cradled and nurtured and promoted. Love it. Maybe with more visibility for the music as its own distinct style (not under rock, as its listed in the All Music Guide, or as an offshoot of the blues) it can grow again. It's already starting, thanks to a bunch of artists who don't want to be known as "neo soul." Come to think of it, many of them came from Philly.

Stay tuned.