Chaka Khan is back. Not that she ever left. Like many of the artists that I grew up on, she had her youthful heyday with a seminal band, Rufus, and hit another level of greatness as a mature woman and solo artist. But as time marched on and the music industry changed in the '90s, producers and songwriters seemed not to know what to do with her. And I'm sure that Chaka didn't know what to do with herself for long stretches, musically, when she gave a lot of concerts and seemed ready to turn into a bad parody of herself. Now she's on a creative roll, and it's all about her glorious instrument, her voice.
In late 2005 she released ClassiKhan, a collection of her favorite pop tunes recorded with the London Symphony Orchestra. That album has not been much discussed in the press, but it's a personal favorite of mine. Chaka poured her heart into reinterpretations of two Shirley Bassey hits, "Diamonds Are Forever" and "Goldfinger," as well as Peggy Lee's "Is That All There Is" and the classic "I'm In The Mood For Love," among other tunes. That album shows off her instinctive jazz phrasings and considerable interpretive skills, as well as her sheer vocal power. It also gave a window into her personality, oddly enough, through the choice of songs and her delivery. That album made me fall in love with her all over again, though her talents have never been far from my heart.
In the meantime, since that set was released, Chaka had more personal drama. Her son was charged with the shooting death of a friend at her house. It was a heartbreaking situation, particularly as the shooting was an accident. A foolish accident, but an accident nonetheless, a fact to which she tearfully testified in court last year. Thankfully, her son was acquitted.
With that situation behind her, perhaps Chaka is happier, freer, renewed. On the recently released We All Love Ella, she sings a fun duet of "Mr. Paganini" with Natalie Cole, and then soars through a fantastic "Lullaby Of Birdland." Now she has a new album coming in September called Funk This. I don't know that the title really reflects the album's contents, but it doesn't matter. It's wonderful. Perhaps made more wonderful by the fact that she has teamed with Jimmy Jam & Terry Lewis, whose musical brilliance I have always admired. (I have to fess up that I did spend the better part of a year working for them, but we had little contact and I was already enamored of their work.)
They are geniuses at encapsulating the spirit of the artist they work with, at writing tunes that are like testimony straight from the artist's lips. Back in the '80s when Jam & Lewis and L.A. & Face were competing studio talents, I used to say that LA & Face's songs were like gorgeous, ready-made tract houses that they invited the artist to move into, while Jam & Lewis's songs were custom-built houses to each artist's specifications. In fact, maybe I learned my professional bio writing talents from Jam & Lewis in this way. I talk to the artist, learn their language, what makes them tick and what's important to them, then I design the document around that. But back to Jam & Lewis--they really can produce the hell out of a thing. For Chaka, they also had help from Big Jim, the Avila Brothers, and Jesse Johnson here and there. The recording sounds deep, layered, and yes, funky in a profoundly old school way. In fact, they have infused Funk This with the flavor, the timbre, the orchestration elements of some of Chaka's best Rufus and solo recordings--no easy feat.
Anyway, on Funk This Chaka proves that she truly can sing anything. She tackles rock, funk, pop, jazz, and of course R&B. She goes all Jimi Hendrix on "Castles Made Of Sand," she hollers her own backstory on the funky "Back In The Day" (which reminded me of how she sang Stevie's similarly remember-when tune "I Was Made To Love Him" on her 1979 debut Chaka), she gets old school bluesy on a version of Dee Dee Warwick's "Foolish Fool," and I have to say, I ADORE how she does it.
In a nod to Prince, whose cover of "I Feel For You" helped cement her solo stardom, she does a pounding, pointed version of "Sign O' The Times," tacking on the modulating "whoa whoa whoa" strains of her own "I'm Every Woman" toward the end. She reunites with Rufus guitarist Tony Maiden on the medley of their hits "Pack'd My Bags/You Got The Love" which is deeper the second time around. She charms on her own ballad composition "Angel," and soars on the uplifting "Super Life."
There are a couple of missteps, like a tune called "Disrespect," an ill-advised duet with Mary J. Blige that sounds like a screeching catfight at a NAMM percussion showcase(uh, NAMM stands for the National Assn. Of Music Merchandisers, which stages a giant annual trade show for musical equipment). And she drags out Michael McDonald for a reprise of "You Belong To Me." Michael already did fabulously with the tune, he doesn't need to do it again, and while she's trying to pay tribute to him (she's already said, "I needed some Doobie in my funk,") anybody who tries to duet with Yvette Marie Stevens is fighting an uphill battle. (Except the aforementioned Cole on the Ella track.)
Another minor complaint: Over the years Chaka seems to have developed a new quirk among what Patti Austin has termed "vocal affectations": Where other funk singers growl, yelp, or use "ow" or "uh!," Chaka now employs a rather nasty guttural bray that I guess she feels is digging deep for the funk. It can be a little ... off-putting. But no matter. She can still effortlessly lasso a high note out of the stratosphere like no other. I'd rather listen to a donkey-calling Chaka tune than a chart-topper from any one of these little pop tarts out here.
Really, I'm just splitting hairs. There is much that is wonderful, reaffirming, interesting, and soulful in Chaka's new disk. It's a great listen, and Chaka really challenges herself, just as she did on ClassiKhan, and it's great to hear. Funk This is one of those albums that restores my faith -- however briefly -- in the music industry. I never lost faith in Chaka.
Funk This is out on 9/25. www.chakakhan.com.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Wednesday, July 11, 2007
The Eyes Have It, Part II
[I had just been informed by doctors at the Jules Stein Eye Clinic that I needed emergency surgery immediately. ]
As Chic put it so eloquently in 1978: Freak Out!
It was now 7 at night. I had left my work half done at the office. I hadn't eaten. There was no one to come pick me up or get my car out of the hospital parking lot. My company had just switched medical insurance carriers and I didn't even have an ID card yet. I didn't know if it would cover something like this. I had been expecting the clinic to simply dole out a future appointment with a laser and a prescription for eye drops. But there was a possibility I could be BLIND, at least in one eye, where if a retinal detachment involves the central macula, eyesight in that eye is irretrievable.
I was shocked by what they were proposing. The operation involved knocking me out, extracting my eyeball, clamping it into a plastic belt called a scleral buckle that would keep my raggedy eye tissue together, then reinserting the eye over a gas bubble at the back of the socket that would further tamp down the retinal tissue. It sounded frightening and more than a little sick-making.
As the doctors kept trying to convince me-- taking turns running out to make all the surgical arrangements and sending me to their hospital intake office-- I alternated between being a rational adult and blubbering like a cranky toddler. I made a kazillion phone calls, mostly to my boss and to our insurance consultant on the East Coast, where it was way after business hours, and to many of my very busy, geographically dispersed friends in the hope they could fetch me post-surgery. I wept, I wailed, I ranted and railed. I was embarrassingly unhinged. I blame the freakout on fatigue, the unpleasant prospect of being a further burden on my overburdened friends, and the fact that I'd have to bail last minute on numerous projects I needed to make good on. Things weren't looking good.
Finally I reached a breaking point where good sense reasserted itself. I felt railroaded and needlessly frightened by the hospital staff. I suddenly turned off the waterworks, gathered up my stuff, and calmly informed the medical team that I was leaving. With four hours' worth of dilating drops still in my eyes, I stumbled down to the parking lot with one of the doctors literally trotting across the plaza after me, begging me not to go. "I'm not saying you could go blind overnight, but it's a possibility," he warned. "You shouldn't go."
I kept stepping. My rationale was this: I had gone weeks with the symptoms. Another day wasn't going to make a major difference. And I wasn't going to succumb to surgery with no way home, my car racking up charges in their parking lot, my work going begging, and a $10,000-plus surgery bill that I didn't know would be covered or not.
The next day I confirmed my insurance status, left my car at the job, and hied it over to the Jules Stein Eye Center. But in my hospital gown, cap and booties, with nurses pulling me onto a gurney, I was still phoning around desperately to find someone to pick me up and then drive me out to where I was staying. I left messages for several folks and finally connected with a guy friend who owns a 2-seater convertible just before they jabbed me with the anesthesia IV.
Silly me--I'd been thinking that the operation would be like a laser procedure--the eye would be the only thing affected. I hadn't banked on the impact of anesthesia and a major surgery (the hint was that I had to chuck all my clothes for a hospital gown, duh). When I woke up, I felt as though I had been hit by a truck. My left eye was bandaged (they'd do laser work on the right eye later), and I could barely hold my head up as they wheeled me in a chair out to recovery.
"Your friend is here to pick you up," chirped the nurse. "She's right outside."
"SHE?" I repeated.
I had been expecting my male buddy and his Miata. For some reason I'd told him I would meet him outside afterward. I was in no condition to get up and meet someone outside!
Thank God for my girlfriend L, who got my desperate messages, dropped everything, drove to the hospital and located me. I ended up phoning Miata Man, who was indeed at the curb, and sending him home. It was to the better. L, who had dealt with the needs of her ill mother for a long time, was well-versed in hospital routine. She also had an SUV, a smoother ride for a post-surgical patient. While my head lolled and I fought nausea, she drove us to a pharmacy, went in and paid for my prescriptions, then drove me to my friends' place. I could not have stood on my feet long enough to get the scrips myself. My teeth chattered and I shivered uncontrollably thanks to the anesthesia.
Thus began my slow recovery. Two weeks of continuously lying on my left side in one position so the gas bubble in my eye could sit in the proper position and do its work. I could barely eat, I developed kinks in my neck from the position, and I had a lot of time to think about my past and future. Through the next four weeks I went from seeping bandage to metal eye guard to sexy black eye patch, all the while unable to drive or read.
During that time I received many solicitous, concerned phone calls. Which was great. But also scary, because I heard from friends and relatives I had not heard from in years. Was my mother telling people I was dying? Did my friends fear I'd be stricken blind? Was I now eternally housebound and frail? Was I soon to be relegated to the cane-and-dog set? Or was this eye operation so much more serious than I still failed to recognize?
It was strange. I'd had other more serious surgeries in the last five years, but this eye thing really got people fascinated, horrified, and engaged. The idea of not being able to see, however briefly, or of having the eyes handled in any way just geeks people out. There's a squeamishness there. Perfectly rational people who asked me to explain my surgery would turn ashen, gag, and stop me the minute I got to the details of the scleral buckle procedure. I admit that when I first heard what the doctors planned for me, I was freaked, but now that I've been through it I'm unaffected.
Anyway, it's four months since the surgery. I had to go back to the clinic a few times for laser work to repair retinal tears in my right eye, and that was easy (if you call the feeling of stinging, burning ants attacking the inside of your eye easy) compared with the severity of the surgical episode.
I'm up on my feet. I can drive. I'm back to work. Miracle of miracles, I found an apartment and moved in. I'm not blind. My abysmal failure at moving cross-country seems a blip on the screen.
I'm grateful for everything in my life right now. Because I can see it all.
As Chic put it so eloquently in 1978: Freak Out!
It was now 7 at night. I had left my work half done at the office. I hadn't eaten. There was no one to come pick me up or get my car out of the hospital parking lot. My company had just switched medical insurance carriers and I didn't even have an ID card yet. I didn't know if it would cover something like this. I had been expecting the clinic to simply dole out a future appointment with a laser and a prescription for eye drops. But there was a possibility I could be BLIND, at least in one eye, where if a retinal detachment involves the central macula, eyesight in that eye is irretrievable.
I was shocked by what they were proposing. The operation involved knocking me out, extracting my eyeball, clamping it into a plastic belt called a scleral buckle that would keep my raggedy eye tissue together, then reinserting the eye over a gas bubble at the back of the socket that would further tamp down the retinal tissue. It sounded frightening and more than a little sick-making.
As the doctors kept trying to convince me-- taking turns running out to make all the surgical arrangements and sending me to their hospital intake office-- I alternated between being a rational adult and blubbering like a cranky toddler. I made a kazillion phone calls, mostly to my boss and to our insurance consultant on the East Coast, where it was way after business hours, and to many of my very busy, geographically dispersed friends in the hope they could fetch me post-surgery. I wept, I wailed, I ranted and railed. I was embarrassingly unhinged. I blame the freakout on fatigue, the unpleasant prospect of being a further burden on my overburdened friends, and the fact that I'd have to bail last minute on numerous projects I needed to make good on. Things weren't looking good.
Finally I reached a breaking point where good sense reasserted itself. I felt railroaded and needlessly frightened by the hospital staff. I suddenly turned off the waterworks, gathered up my stuff, and calmly informed the medical team that I was leaving. With four hours' worth of dilating drops still in my eyes, I stumbled down to the parking lot with one of the doctors literally trotting across the plaza after me, begging me not to go. "I'm not saying you could go blind overnight, but it's a possibility," he warned. "You shouldn't go."
I kept stepping. My rationale was this: I had gone weeks with the symptoms. Another day wasn't going to make a major difference. And I wasn't going to succumb to surgery with no way home, my car racking up charges in their parking lot, my work going begging, and a $10,000-plus surgery bill that I didn't know would be covered or not.
The next day I confirmed my insurance status, left my car at the job, and hied it over to the Jules Stein Eye Center. But in my hospital gown, cap and booties, with nurses pulling me onto a gurney, I was still phoning around desperately to find someone to pick me up and then drive me out to where I was staying. I left messages for several folks and finally connected with a guy friend who owns a 2-seater convertible just before they jabbed me with the anesthesia IV.
Silly me--I'd been thinking that the operation would be like a laser procedure--the eye would be the only thing affected. I hadn't banked on the impact of anesthesia and a major surgery (the hint was that I had to chuck all my clothes for a hospital gown, duh). When I woke up, I felt as though I had been hit by a truck. My left eye was bandaged (they'd do laser work on the right eye later), and I could barely hold my head up as they wheeled me in a chair out to recovery.
"Your friend is here to pick you up," chirped the nurse. "She's right outside."
"SHE?" I repeated.
I had been expecting my male buddy and his Miata. For some reason I'd told him I would meet him outside afterward. I was in no condition to get up and meet someone outside!
Thank God for my girlfriend L, who got my desperate messages, dropped everything, drove to the hospital and located me. I ended up phoning Miata Man, who was indeed at the curb, and sending him home. It was to the better. L, who had dealt with the needs of her ill mother for a long time, was well-versed in hospital routine. She also had an SUV, a smoother ride for a post-surgical patient. While my head lolled and I fought nausea, she drove us to a pharmacy, went in and paid for my prescriptions, then drove me to my friends' place. I could not have stood on my feet long enough to get the scrips myself. My teeth chattered and I shivered uncontrollably thanks to the anesthesia.
Thus began my slow recovery. Two weeks of continuously lying on my left side in one position so the gas bubble in my eye could sit in the proper position and do its work. I could barely eat, I developed kinks in my neck from the position, and I had a lot of time to think about my past and future. Through the next four weeks I went from seeping bandage to metal eye guard to sexy black eye patch, all the while unable to drive or read.
During that time I received many solicitous, concerned phone calls. Which was great. But also scary, because I heard from friends and relatives I had not heard from in years. Was my mother telling people I was dying? Did my friends fear I'd be stricken blind? Was I now eternally housebound and frail? Was I soon to be relegated to the cane-and-dog set? Or was this eye operation so much more serious than I still failed to recognize?
It was strange. I'd had other more serious surgeries in the last five years, but this eye thing really got people fascinated, horrified, and engaged. The idea of not being able to see, however briefly, or of having the eyes handled in any way just geeks people out. There's a squeamishness there. Perfectly rational people who asked me to explain my surgery would turn ashen, gag, and stop me the minute I got to the details of the scleral buckle procedure. I admit that when I first heard what the doctors planned for me, I was freaked, but now that I've been through it I'm unaffected.
Anyway, it's four months since the surgery. I had to go back to the clinic a few times for laser work to repair retinal tears in my right eye, and that was easy (if you call the feeling of stinging, burning ants attacking the inside of your eye easy) compared with the severity of the surgical episode.
I'm up on my feet. I can drive. I'm back to work. Miracle of miracles, I found an apartment and moved in. I'm not blind. My abysmal failure at moving cross-country seems a blip on the screen.
I'm grateful for everything in my life right now. Because I can see it all.
Monday, July 02, 2007
2007: The Eyes Have It, Part 1
If I told you all that happened to me since January, you wouldn't believe it. OK, maybe you would -- it was ME having trouble believing, since I still have problems adapting to any sort of glitches in the life program.
I had spent most of January in New York, riding the subway and working out of the main office. It was .... not horrible, but definitely less comfortable than my LA routine. So I returned to the West Coast. My life is just easier to manage on the West Coast, despite it being far from my kith and kin, offering a shallow wading pool for dating, and growing ever more expensive.
So there I was in February, still living with friends in Cali after four months with most of my belongings in storage, trying to adjust to the stunning revelation that no, I was not going to be moving in glory and triumph to the East Coast after announcing this intention to all and sundry. I was looking desperately for a new LA apartment to get out of my friends' hair and re-establish my life here. Seems landlords these days are much more greedy about what they charge for rents, and much more discriminating about who they rent to. They can be, because every piece of decent property in the county is being bought up for condos, and rental units are scarce. If you choose to rent anywhere near the city center you pay through the nose, and not before doing a major ass-kissing dance beforehand. Despite all my credentials, the fact that I paid Macy's late three times in 2004 became a black spot on my credit report that potential landlords used to screen me out. Applications were rejected, doors slammed in my face, one old bee-yotch gave me a lecture about my spending habits and I wanted to kick her in her 80-year-old racist shins. Freakin' unbelievable!
On top of that, I had taken on a staggering amount of freelance work in order to further finance my move East, and now had editors and others burning up my phone lines, inquiring as to when they would receive their due. Yours truly was scampering about, burning the midnight oil, going without food or sleep in an attempt to complete projects, all the while juggling the full-time gig and the apartment hunt. By March--with no apartment in sight and pressure from all sides-- I was both desperate and despondent, convinced my relationship with my current hosts was ruined forever and that I'd never be independent again. February segued into March. Much hand-wringing, hyperventilation, and weight loss ensued. In hindsight, it's easy to see how a major breakdown was already in the pipeline.
After a late-February trip to celebrate the anniversary of the only black-owned hotel and casino in Las Vegas (it's Fitzgerald's, by the way), I noticed problems with my eyes. I've always been horribly nearsighted, and ten years ago postponed the inevitable decline with lasik surgery. My vision was improved by the procedure, though not perfected. I still wear glasses, just not the Coke-bottle kind. And if I take them off, I can still find my way around without assistance. But I do experience the halos and bad night vision side effects that come with the operation.
In mid March, I was in Pasadena to cover an awards show. I spent a miserable day constantly polishing my glasses, complaining that they were dirty. It soon occurred to me that it wasn't my glasses--it was my EYES that were cloudy. As I mentioned, problems with my eyes have always been a constant. But now I was developing lightning flashes at night, dark shadows during the day, squiggly floaters obscuring my vision round the clock--amazingly, stuff I ignored. Then I woke up with hundreds of tiny black dots floating around in my left eye. While I was surprised, this development still didn't alarm me. I figured I needed some eyewash and some sleep. I didn't have time to deal with it--I had deadlines.
A friend convinced me this was serious. I consulted the Internet and learned that these symptoms signaled a dire condition that required me to seek medical assistance immediately. I bolted from my desk at the office just after lunch and headed to nearby UCLA, where they have a highly regarded eye clinic. I was seen by no less than four specialists, who damn near popped my eyeballs out of my head and blinded me with ridiculously bright halogen torches through a series of lengthy examinations. They announced that I had detached the retinas in both eyes-- the left eye being worse than the right. "You need surgery immediately -- TONIGHT," intoned the retinal specialist. "Not tonight, I'll come back," I said. "No, TONIGHT," they said.
I freaked out. Majorly.
More in Part 2...
I had spent most of January in New York, riding the subway and working out of the main office. It was .... not horrible, but definitely less comfortable than my LA routine. So I returned to the West Coast. My life is just easier to manage on the West Coast, despite it being far from my kith and kin, offering a shallow wading pool for dating, and growing ever more expensive.
So there I was in February, still living with friends in Cali after four months with most of my belongings in storage, trying to adjust to the stunning revelation that no, I was not going to be moving in glory and triumph to the East Coast after announcing this intention to all and sundry. I was looking desperately for a new LA apartment to get out of my friends' hair and re-establish my life here. Seems landlords these days are much more greedy about what they charge for rents, and much more discriminating about who they rent to. They can be, because every piece of decent property in the county is being bought up for condos, and rental units are scarce. If you choose to rent anywhere near the city center you pay through the nose, and not before doing a major ass-kissing dance beforehand. Despite all my credentials, the fact that I paid Macy's late three times in 2004 became a black spot on my credit report that potential landlords used to screen me out. Applications were rejected, doors slammed in my face, one old bee-yotch gave me a lecture about my spending habits and I wanted to kick her in her 80-year-old racist shins. Freakin' unbelievable!
On top of that, I had taken on a staggering amount of freelance work in order to further finance my move East, and now had editors and others burning up my phone lines, inquiring as to when they would receive their due. Yours truly was scampering about, burning the midnight oil, going without food or sleep in an attempt to complete projects, all the while juggling the full-time gig and the apartment hunt. By March--with no apartment in sight and pressure from all sides-- I was both desperate and despondent, convinced my relationship with my current hosts was ruined forever and that I'd never be independent again. February segued into March. Much hand-wringing, hyperventilation, and weight loss ensued. In hindsight, it's easy to see how a major breakdown was already in the pipeline.
After a late-February trip to celebrate the anniversary of the only black-owned hotel and casino in Las Vegas (it's Fitzgerald's, by the way), I noticed problems with my eyes. I've always been horribly nearsighted, and ten years ago postponed the inevitable decline with lasik surgery. My vision was improved by the procedure, though not perfected. I still wear glasses, just not the Coke-bottle kind. And if I take them off, I can still find my way around without assistance. But I do experience the halos and bad night vision side effects that come with the operation.
In mid March, I was in Pasadena to cover an awards show. I spent a miserable day constantly polishing my glasses, complaining that they were dirty. It soon occurred to me that it wasn't my glasses--it was my EYES that were cloudy. As I mentioned, problems with my eyes have always been a constant. But now I was developing lightning flashes at night, dark shadows during the day, squiggly floaters obscuring my vision round the clock--amazingly, stuff I ignored. Then I woke up with hundreds of tiny black dots floating around in my left eye. While I was surprised, this development still didn't alarm me. I figured I needed some eyewash and some sleep. I didn't have time to deal with it--I had deadlines.
A friend convinced me this was serious. I consulted the Internet and learned that these symptoms signaled a dire condition that required me to seek medical assistance immediately. I bolted from my desk at the office just after lunch and headed to nearby UCLA, where they have a highly regarded eye clinic. I was seen by no less than four specialists, who damn near popped my eyeballs out of my head and blinded me with ridiculously bright halogen torches through a series of lengthy examinations. They announced that I had detached the retinas in both eyes-- the left eye being worse than the right. "You need surgery immediately -- TONIGHT," intoned the retinal specialist. "Not tonight, I'll come back," I said. "No, TONIGHT," they said.
I freaked out. Majorly.
More in Part 2...
Friday, January 19, 2007
Midlife Moving Madness
I wanted to make big changes. For six months, for a year, I've been talking about it. The the opportunity actually came to make the leap from one coast to another, and do it lightning quick. I wanted to close the book on one portion of my life and start a brand new book in a different locale. I had come from the East, after all, how hard would it be to return?
Waaaay harder than I ever anticipated, as it turns out. Too much time has gone by.
I had a good plan, to move back East, and it all seemed very noble and right and progressive. But I just can't make myself do it. I WANT to be there, I want to be with my sisters and my parents and spend warm and fuzzy time with my peeps and everybody, but I just spent six weeks on the East Coast, and every moment there just felt like a trial. I kept telling myself to get with it, get with the swim, try to enjoy, and I was compromising. Maybe it was about being in the cold, which I never could stand, but I think it was more about my being in the city itself. I no longer fit in there, I have lost my "Bronx skills" as a friend put it. I no longer have love for New York City, the love you have to have to survive happily in it, to be thrilled and attracted to it.
I used to have that feeling, that absolute heady romantic adoration for New York's gritty crumbly realness and crass commercial newness. Growing up there I swooned over its movie theaters, parks, and museums, I slavered over its China-Criollo restaurants and wine bars, the bodegas and Jewish delis, its funky music and dance clubs and upscale bistros, I thrilled to its old architecture, its history, its sprawl, and I strove with everyone else to be "in" with the in-crowd and the folks another friend calls "the N----rati." It was always expensive, but somehow in my youth and my excitement at being smack in the heart of the most exciting city in the world, I felt honored, even privileged to hand over big bucks for everything from cocktails to cab rides to club admission. The dearly departed (and currently in syndication) Sex & The City captured what was romantic and sweet about New York, the sheer fantasy of what kept me in love with it. But no longer. The things I used to enjoy about it seem ridiculous, overrated, and unfulfilling. That's age for ya.
Not bashing the old Apple. It has its charms. But I have become one of those West Coast hippy dippy slackers I used to joke about: Too used to palm trees, sunshine, valet parking, a certain glossiness and sheen. I love my backless mules, my yoga classes, my sushi hangouts, my Whole Foods and Trader Joes excursions, and even--God help me--The Grove, that monument to consumerism over in the Miracle Mile. They say Los Angeles has no culture, and that's not entirely true. It seems to lack a true center, but hey -- that's what the automobile is for.
Anyway, I haven't completely given up on moving closer to my peeps. I think perhaps now is not the time--I'm not quite ready. The prospect of making big changes is wonderful and filled with hope and possibility, but one must be prepared. I'm not. Not yet.
Waaaay harder than I ever anticipated, as it turns out. Too much time has gone by.
I had a good plan, to move back East, and it all seemed very noble and right and progressive. But I just can't make myself do it. I WANT to be there, I want to be with my sisters and my parents and spend warm and fuzzy time with my peeps and everybody, but I just spent six weeks on the East Coast, and every moment there just felt like a trial. I kept telling myself to get with it, get with the swim, try to enjoy, and I was compromising. Maybe it was about being in the cold, which I never could stand, but I think it was more about my being in the city itself. I no longer fit in there, I have lost my "Bronx skills" as a friend put it. I no longer have love for New York City, the love you have to have to survive happily in it, to be thrilled and attracted to it.
I used to have that feeling, that absolute heady romantic adoration for New York's gritty crumbly realness and crass commercial newness. Growing up there I swooned over its movie theaters, parks, and museums, I slavered over its China-Criollo restaurants and wine bars, the bodegas and Jewish delis, its funky music and dance clubs and upscale bistros, I thrilled to its old architecture, its history, its sprawl, and I strove with everyone else to be "in" with the in-crowd and the folks another friend calls "the N----rati." It was always expensive, but somehow in my youth and my excitement at being smack in the heart of the most exciting city in the world, I felt honored, even privileged to hand over big bucks for everything from cocktails to cab rides to club admission. The dearly departed (and currently in syndication) Sex & The City captured what was romantic and sweet about New York, the sheer fantasy of what kept me in love with it. But no longer. The things I used to enjoy about it seem ridiculous, overrated, and unfulfilling. That's age for ya.
Not bashing the old Apple. It has its charms. But I have become one of those West Coast hippy dippy slackers I used to joke about: Too used to palm trees, sunshine, valet parking, a certain glossiness and sheen. I love my backless mules, my yoga classes, my sushi hangouts, my Whole Foods and Trader Joes excursions, and even--God help me--The Grove, that monument to consumerism over in the Miracle Mile. They say Los Angeles has no culture, and that's not entirely true. It seems to lack a true center, but hey -- that's what the automobile is for.
Anyway, I haven't completely given up on moving closer to my peeps. I think perhaps now is not the time--I'm not quite ready. The prospect of making big changes is wonderful and filled with hope and possibility, but one must be prepared. I'm not. Not yet.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Music Soothes The Savage Stress
--OK, stress is a mother. I have never handled stress well. I'm a person who likes to focus on one project at a time. I can go beginning to end, wrap that up, and then on to the next. But life is rarely like that. When I have to juggle three or four or six different projects or situations all at once, I start to feel like I have a 100-pound pack on my back, like Sisyphus rolling the rock up the hill on the daily, I feel like I will never see the light at the end of the tunnel. My eyes get a little wild, my breathing gets a little on the hyper side, and the timbre of my voice starts to rise into Minnie Mouse territory, squeezed by my escalating anxiety. (People can always tell my mood when I answer the phone by the level of my voice). Oh -- and my back goes out. I have a nasty crick in my neck right now. Of course, having a crick in the neck or kink in the back goes a long way toward easing the already troublesome flow -- NOT!
I'm not going to get into all that has me taking shallow breaths these days. It's all so minuscule in the scope of a world where Lebanon and Israel are exchanging bombs, soldiers are falling in Iraq every day, residents of the Gulf Coast are still sifting through the rubble almost a year later, and gas prices are rocketing into the stratosphere. Some people would count my little work and home dilemmas as blessings compared to what they have going on. So I need to CHILL.
I know I should be calm. Life IS problems, as an old boyfriend used to say. But I was raised to expect things to be smooth sailing with no surprises by a mother who seemed in shock whenever things went awry. Which was basically all the time. I am trying to unlearn the example of her responses, but it's hard. I mean, why SHOULDN'T things be smooth as glass all the time, dammit???
It's hard to keep all the balls in the air when I take time out of my busy schedule to blog. I guess whatever crushing pressure develops from my ongoing procrastination is only my just desserts. Pass me a spoon and some whipped topping. As a character in one of my favorite novels says, You just hungry, chile, that's why you carrying on this way.
So in addition to snacking my way happy, what improves the mood? Music.
--MMMmmm, that new Beyonce track is Hot Hot HOT! Deja Vu has a great sound, it's like an event record, the same way Crazy In Love sounded BIG coming through the speakers. I think it's the horns and the percussion that take it there. Very few R&B/pop records these days have big, brassy horn lines in them, sampled or otherwise. The single has that uncanny feeling of something you've heard before, though you know you haven't. I'm anxious to see more of the all-girl band, too. I'm not mad at Miss B at all.
I got to interview Beyonce just once, at a photo shoot for a magazine about six or seven years ago when Destiny's Child had just dumped LeToya (who's now rising to the top with her own single) and LeTavia and taken on Michelle and a fourth girl who didn't last long, Farrah. I was just completely charmed by Beyonce, she was like this polite, well-bred Southern girl. It seemed like an act at first, like something put on for journalists, the Houston accent and all. But I finally got that it's her way. Sweet on the outside, tough on the inside. Tough, but not ... rough. Maybe I just want to relate to her because I'm also a Virgo with big mama thighs. Ha!
An addendum: Writing that story was among the most unpleasant journalism experiences I've had. In trying to run down the inside facts of why the other half of DC got dumped, I later tried to press some of the group's entourage for details, and got cussed out and hung up on by hair, makeup, and security people and read the riot act by Papa Matt. Hey -- I was just doing my job, though I felt a little icky about it. I didn't ask them anything outrageous, just if they had any factual tidbits that they could even supply anonymously. This was before news of the lawsuits came out. I'm sure their loyalty was well rewarded over time.
Will I ever get to interview Miss B again? Time will tell.
I'm not going to get into all that has me taking shallow breaths these days. It's all so minuscule in the scope of a world where Lebanon and Israel are exchanging bombs, soldiers are falling in Iraq every day, residents of the Gulf Coast are still sifting through the rubble almost a year later, and gas prices are rocketing into the stratosphere. Some people would count my little work and home dilemmas as blessings compared to what they have going on. So I need to CHILL.
I know I should be calm. Life IS problems, as an old boyfriend used to say. But I was raised to expect things to be smooth sailing with no surprises by a mother who seemed in shock whenever things went awry. Which was basically all the time. I am trying to unlearn the example of her responses, but it's hard. I mean, why SHOULDN'T things be smooth as glass all the time, dammit???
It's hard to keep all the balls in the air when I take time out of my busy schedule to blog. I guess whatever crushing pressure develops from my ongoing procrastination is only my just desserts. Pass me a spoon and some whipped topping. As a character in one of my favorite novels says, You just hungry, chile, that's why you carrying on this way.
So in addition to snacking my way happy, what improves the mood? Music.
--MMMmmm, that new Beyonce track is Hot Hot HOT! Deja Vu has a great sound, it's like an event record, the same way Crazy In Love sounded BIG coming through the speakers. I think it's the horns and the percussion that take it there. Very few R&B/pop records these days have big, brassy horn lines in them, sampled or otherwise. The single has that uncanny feeling of something you've heard before, though you know you haven't. I'm anxious to see more of the all-girl band, too. I'm not mad at Miss B at all.
I got to interview Beyonce just once, at a photo shoot for a magazine about six or seven years ago when Destiny's Child had just dumped LeToya (who's now rising to the top with her own single) and LeTavia and taken on Michelle and a fourth girl who didn't last long, Farrah. I was just completely charmed by Beyonce, she was like this polite, well-bred Southern girl. It seemed like an act at first, like something put on for journalists, the Houston accent and all. But I finally got that it's her way. Sweet on the outside, tough on the inside. Tough, but not ... rough. Maybe I just want to relate to her because I'm also a Virgo with big mama thighs. Ha!
An addendum: Writing that story was among the most unpleasant journalism experiences I've had. In trying to run down the inside facts of why the other half of DC got dumped, I later tried to press some of the group's entourage for details, and got cussed out and hung up on by hair, makeup, and security people and read the riot act by Papa Matt. Hey -- I was just doing my job, though I felt a little icky about it. I didn't ask them anything outrageous, just if they had any factual tidbits that they could even supply anonymously. This was before news of the lawsuits came out. I'm sure their loyalty was well rewarded over time.
Will I ever get to interview Miss B again? Time will tell.
Sunday, July 09, 2006
Superman Recycled
Hollywood's got nerve. We knew this, but still. Ripoffs abound. Bad enough theaters show you a half hour of bad commercials and charge you a grip to get in, then the big studios fail to deliver half the time. Now they serve leftovers.
On Saturday night, the Man wanted to go to the movies, which was fine. It was hot as all heck in the San Fernando Valley, a theater was the best spot to literally chill in. The Man also wanted to check out Superman Returns. Fine with me. I'm not a comic book fan by any stretch of the imagination (I had to be restrained from getting my money back within the first five minutes of Unbreakable, when that overrated Shyamalan character posted some superhero mythology gobbledygook onscreen at the top of the flick), but the first two X-Men movies were cool, and I dug Spiderman. OK.
Again, within the first five minutes of Superman Returns I smelled a rat. Starting with the opening credit sequence. Uh, that music sounds darned familiar. And the swooping blue holographic screen credits seem awfully been-there-done-that. Wake me, shake me, is it 1978? Why does director Bryan Singer recycle the same exact elements, John Williams score and all, from the 1978 Christopher Reeve flick? I know it was great the first time around, no question, but no updates, no add-ons, no remixes? I mean, that's just CHEAP. Like watching the TV movie version. As an audience member I already felt insulted and swindled, like a professor whose student grinningly turns in a plagiarized paper. Perhaps he meant it as an homage, but it felt more like frommage (uh, cheese). I guess that's what I get for being old enough to have experienced the first Superman in an actual movie theater. I wouldn't even have known if I was 20 years younger.
Spoiler Alert: (although how much of a spoiler could it be if you've already seen the weekend box office numbers?) Things did not, as they say, get better from there. The flick was just OK. The director banked on the audience already knowing the Superman story inside and out. And while he felt it necessary to waste a lot of time on fancy flashbacks with old Brando footage and a childhood cornfield sequence, he spent too little time on character development. We liked Superman once, hey -- we'll like him again! But that doesn't always work with a new actor (Kilmer, Clooney as Batman, anyone?)
Brandon Routh fills out his tights quite nicely (seems the suit is one of the things they spent money to update) but doesn't have much to say that's new or original or interesting and spends most of the flick imitating the dearly departed Chris Reeve or posing like cells from the original DC comic. And Kate Bosworth? Sweet girl, badly miscast. Lois Lane should have been played by Parker Posey, who livens up any flick, and who gamely injects humor and pathos into the minimal character of Lex Luthor's moll. Kevin Spacey strikes the right note of nastiness as Luthor and he has some great lines. I'd also throw a few Oscar nominations at the set designers and set dressers--nice art deco touches--but the costumes are a weird mix of 2006 and 1946. But the movie is looooooooong. Just when you think it's over, there's ... more. And more. And more.
Well, don't listen to me. I'm the ancient chick who went to the original Superman in a theater on 34th Street in New York where mice ran up and down the rows to get fallen candy. My screams should have summoned all the residents of Krypton.
On Saturday night, the Man wanted to go to the movies, which was fine. It was hot as all heck in the San Fernando Valley, a theater was the best spot to literally chill in. The Man also wanted to check out Superman Returns. Fine with me. I'm not a comic book fan by any stretch of the imagination (I had to be restrained from getting my money back within the first five minutes of Unbreakable, when that overrated Shyamalan character posted some superhero mythology gobbledygook onscreen at the top of the flick), but the first two X-Men movies were cool, and I dug Spiderman. OK.
Again, within the first five minutes of Superman Returns I smelled a rat. Starting with the opening credit sequence. Uh, that music sounds darned familiar. And the swooping blue holographic screen credits seem awfully been-there-done-that. Wake me, shake me, is it 1978? Why does director Bryan Singer recycle the same exact elements, John Williams score and all, from the 1978 Christopher Reeve flick? I know it was great the first time around, no question, but no updates, no add-ons, no remixes? I mean, that's just CHEAP. Like watching the TV movie version. As an audience member I already felt insulted and swindled, like a professor whose student grinningly turns in a plagiarized paper. Perhaps he meant it as an homage, but it felt more like frommage (uh, cheese). I guess that's what I get for being old enough to have experienced the first Superman in an actual movie theater. I wouldn't even have known if I was 20 years younger.
Spoiler Alert: (although how much of a spoiler could it be if you've already seen the weekend box office numbers?) Things did not, as they say, get better from there. The flick was just OK. The director banked on the audience already knowing the Superman story inside and out. And while he felt it necessary to waste a lot of time on fancy flashbacks with old Brando footage and a childhood cornfield sequence, he spent too little time on character development. We liked Superman once, hey -- we'll like him again! But that doesn't always work with a new actor (Kilmer, Clooney as Batman, anyone?)
Brandon Routh fills out his tights quite nicely (seems the suit is one of the things they spent money to update) but doesn't have much to say that's new or original or interesting and spends most of the flick imitating the dearly departed Chris Reeve or posing like cells from the original DC comic. And Kate Bosworth? Sweet girl, badly miscast. Lois Lane should have been played by Parker Posey, who livens up any flick, and who gamely injects humor and pathos into the minimal character of Lex Luthor's moll. Kevin Spacey strikes the right note of nastiness as Luthor and he has some great lines. I'd also throw a few Oscar nominations at the set designers and set dressers--nice art deco touches--but the costumes are a weird mix of 2006 and 1946. But the movie is looooooooong. Just when you think it's over, there's ... more. And more. And more.
Well, don't listen to me. I'm the ancient chick who went to the original Superman in a theater on 34th Street in New York where mice ran up and down the rows to get fallen candy. My screams should have summoned all the residents of Krypton.
Friday, July 07, 2006
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.
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.
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