The Masterpiece

 

Beginning in the early fifties, my grandmother, four of her sisters, two of her brothers and several of their cousins, left the south to move north, and later, they were followed by my mother and more cousins who planted the clan’s flag in the New York metro area. Eventually, I was born there, along with another  group of cousins who were all close to my age. We were sprinkled all over the Apple; in Queens, in Brooklyn, the Boogie Down, and just north of there in Mount Vernon and New Rochelle. I was blessed to have grown up in my hometown in Jersey, a small enclave for jazz and soul singers, musicians, stars and record executives that was located right outside of Harlem that I now call Soul City.

Though I lived in the north, I spent many summers of my youth “down south” visiting “my people” relatives who remained at “home” worked, lived and raised more relatives. Every year, my mother would send me to her hometown, place me in the care of family in order for us both to get a break from each other for awhile. This also provided opportunities to bond with a whole group of  cousins who were not New Yorkers but were also close to my age. I got to get outdoors in the North Carolina sun, and to soak up a little culture too.

On a hot summer night in ‘73, I was hanging with my older cousin Ronnie Scales in the kitchen at my Aunt Lula’s, and he was turning me on to music; “Pain” the bluesy new single by the Ohio Players, as well as a few other essentials were the topics of discussion. Ronnie was a DJ at a dimly lit joint called the Red Rooster and later, I went by to hear him spin a few sets (yes, I was underage but things were pretty relaxed back then).

What I remember most about that evening was this: I heard some heat from the Isley Brothers, a track from a Richard Pryor album and “Flight Time” a slice of groundbreaking funk from Donald Byrd’s Afrocentric masterpiece, “Black Byrd”. “Black Byrd” and its lead single “Flight Time” represented a departure for Byrd, for jazz, for funk, for soul, for everybody.

Byrd had been a fixture in the hard bop school of east coast improvisation, an educator and band leader for years, but then, he made a jazz record that a thirteen year old, who was into Stevie Wonder, Earth Wind & Fire and James Brown could feel, and the predictable thing happened; he was labeled a sellout by people who didn’t play, never danced and didn’t like or know many thirteen year olds. He abandoned his purists roots and created a funky new way to cut jazz records, and it was on.

His producer/arrangers were a pair of brothers from around my way who had been two of his former students from Howard University. As staff producers for Motown, Larry and Fonce Mizell had produced the first four smashes for the Jackson 5. The Mizell Brothers were dark mystics who knew the recipes for pop hits, mid tempo grooves, electrified blues and airy, soaring melodies that made you dream of greater possibilities. They escaped the regimented dream factory that had stifled others, and began to ply their craft at the more experimental Blue Note Records label. They made music for progressive thinking, and struck gold while they did it. Byrd’s trumpet was the perfect vehicle for this new thing.

The A&R man who supervised the recording of this new direction was Dr. George Butler. Butler was a former classmate of my parents’  at Johnson C. Smith University, but later he would be credited with convincing Miles Davis to record after an extended period of silence as well as signing Wynton Marsalis to Columbia Records. Butler had also migrated north from the south.

“Black Bird” set the mark for Blue Note’s biggest seller for many, many years to follow, and became the first of a series of landmark collaborations between Bryd, Butler and the Mizells. The subsequent releases; “Street Lady”; “Stepping Into Tomorrow”; “Places And Spaces” and “Caricatures” all contained tracks that laid the blueprint for progressive hip hop (backpack) and Neo-Soul. Most memorably “Think Twice” and “Dominoes” were dance tracks that were looped by Main Source, A Tribe Called Quest and Stetsasonic, and can still get your party started.

Since his success opened new avenues for him, while he was teaching jazz classes at Howard U, Byrd recruited a different group of students that moved the jazz/funk needle further into the red. With a little help from the Mizells, the Blackbyrds lit the charts up with “Do It Fluid”,  “Walking In Rhythm”, “Partyland”, “Happy Music” and “Rock Creek Park”. They were a top shelf rhythm machine with a horn section to match. This was serious house party music, I loved their stuff. 

Hip hop has always been in love with Byrd’s records and it has been reported that they were sampled over 200 separate times. While I was an A&R man at EMI, the late Guru organized his first Jazzmatazz record and featured Byrd on the first single. The launch party for the project was held at the classic New York Jazz club, the Village Vanguard. The crowd overflowed, and there  were too many patrons to allow the great Luther Vandross in that night.

I met Donald Byrd a few times, the best of them was on a bright and sunny day in May of ‘85, when I was a promotion man at Def Jam, my mother had visitors from the UMass Amherst community. They were a pleasant couple; a husband who taught jazz, and had been an old Air Force buddy of Byrd’s, and a wife who had also been my mother’s classmate at Johnson C. Smith too.  

For about 10 years, Byrd and I lived in the same town in the Soul City area, and the couple invited him over to my mother’s for a visit. He sat for a couple of hours and talked funk, dance, jazz, and his then plans to go to Cuba to study with intellectuals under Castro. Like the educator that he was, he could see how eager and appreciative I was to have him share a bit of his experience. It was as though I was back in my Aunt Lula’s kitchen again.

Last week, rumors were flying about Donald Byrd’s death at the age of 80. I got an e-mail from a friend in the DC area asking if I knew anything about it. I received a couple of phone calls from Mos Def’s former manager asking the same. I didn’t want to believe it. I thought that it was curious that a groundbreaking world figure could pass and there was not one major news source who verified it. I reached out for Byrd’s former label mate and my friend, Bobbi Humphrey. She confirmed it.

Donald Byrd’s records were among the most inspirational that I have ever heard in my life. His jazz/funk fusion was a cross generational bridge that connected Black America through the funk/soul/jazz and hip hop eras. It was the sound of  family, community and a people on the rise. He was a titan and he sparked something deep in the souls of his listeners and fans. His music provided the soundtrack of my youth and has remained a constant companion ever since. We will never see his like again.

For Nas, Laurie, Rhonda, Hugh, Carol, Monty, Bobbi, Raoul, Perry, Bill, Phillip, Wayne, Ernie, Barry, Brian, Cindy, Rodney, The Ab, The Ep and the Heartbreak Kid. RIP Guru, Fonce, Cedric and Mom and Dad

Hizzzonner

 

He was the mayor from the time I was 18 until I was 29. With the exception of a few years spent away at college and in North Carolina as a DJ, early in his first term, I witnessed his entire reign. He ushered The City back from the brink offinancial ruin by cutting spending, services and raising taxes. He presided over a police force gone mad that murdered an old woman in her apartment. The City was racially and economically divided during his tenure, and it was then that I first became aware of a neighborhood called Howard Beach. Crack, AIDS, homelessness and unemployment were rampant. He closed a hospital in Harlem that not only served the area but was one of the only places where black doctors could find consistent employment. A parking ticket scandal marred his last days in office, caused one of his commissioners to commit suicide and opened his administration to a corruption investigation that touched everything in its wake. 

But something else went on while he was Mayor, Hip Hop emerged as both a voice of the voiceless and an economic power tool for the powerless. Club life and creativity flourished and a golden age in art, music, fashion and design coincided with his era. Artists flocked from everywhere to the Apple. Empires were built, and great cultural figures made their mark. 

Later, after he left office, the building that I worked in housed a law firm where he worked. When I saw him in the lobby, in a neighborhood restaurant or in the elevator, I never spoke. But he did embody a combative, hustling New York that formed me and many of my lifelong friends, and oddly when I read his obit in the Times, I shed a tear. Ed Koch reminds me of the way it used to be and the city I loved dearly. He was part of the old ways of tribal and neighborhood rule. He ran a wide open town where you could get things done. He represented a time before the corporations moved in, the town squared up and money was all that mattered. In the end, he was something that I will always find to be complimentary; he was a New Yorker.

 

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Saturday Night Live

 

Saturday, I was forced to write about the passing of the Ohio Players frontman, Leroy “Sugarfoot” Bonner, how funky he was and how he and his band mates were a topnotch ensemble of progressive musicians with deep roots in the church.. I emailed the blog to several friends, including a former label mate who has signed hit records, and artists and writes as well. Via return e-mail, she lamented how infrequently I blog, and I let her know that the right muse might get me in cyber-print more often.

Had I given it more thought before I wrote back, it would have dawned on me that what was really missing is the general absence of funk, that bluesy, greasy, wayward child of soul that I was reared on.

I spoke with the Epecurean on Sunday morning. Early adopters of this blog will recall that because I went out on the Rock The Bells ol skool hio hop tour of ‘08 as his guest, I came back from a month on the road filled with inspiration that I dared to share with my readers.

We got caught up; what the Knicks are shaping up to be, the merits of the new Cinemax series, Banshee, the honeys and Kendrick Lamar’s appearance the previous night on Saturday Night Live were all topics of conversation. The Ep congratulated me on tipping him and several others to how hot the young MC from Compton, USA was going to be, and commented that, “It must feel good to know that you can still pick ‘em, huh?” Pickin’ ‘em early ain’t hard when they’re funky, and Kendrick Lamar most definitely is that.

Last fall, I intended to write something insightful about his major label debut “good kid, M.a.a.D. city”, something meaningful about his sense of place and time, his use of art as a weapon to fight his way out of the ghetto and share his vision with the world. I wanted to write about his poetic story telling ability that allowed listeners to “see” the small, rhythmic and cinematic gems that made his album the best record that I heard last year. I wanted to write about his sense of family, community and humor that permeates the project. And the sense of loss that gives the young MC the gravity to see it all so clearly.

But I didn’t because I didn’t think my writing would do the music justice, after all, I’m an entertainment exec, not a critic, and then it occurred to me that all I really wanted to write was this: Kendrick Lamar has been what I’ve been missing in music. I’m glad he decided to bless us with his skills.

The R

 

Today we celebrate the birthday of one of the greats. and show our appreciation for his contribution. As he turns 45; a milestone worth noting, we want to remind those who know, and inform those who don’t, that Rakim Allah was as dope as it gets. 

Because of the vague and less than codified commercial environment that gave rise to the hip hop business of the ’80s, it’s not clear to many who weren’t there at the time, that he is one of the greats. When mainstream media discusses the legends and pioneers, his name doesn’t come up when Run, Chuck D, Q-Tip and the Beasties do because he wasn’t with labels that were as deeply committed or as financially equipped to exposing his genius as the others were. But like his more troubled but equally gifted contemporary, Slick Rick, he was one of the two greatest and most influential MCs of hip hop’s golden age. 

When he and his partner Eric B dropped “Eric B Is President” the major labels were not quite in business with hip hop yet.  Def Jam was two years away from having released “I Need A Beat” the company’s debut release by LL Cool J, and was early into a distribution arrangement with CBS Records. ”The Show” b/w “La Di Da Di” the smash 12″ single by Doug E. Fresh and The Get Fresh Crew ft. the inimitable Slick Rick on beat box and vocals had come out the summer before and introduced a new direction from Harlem, USA that would soon be dubbed the “New Jack Swing”. Jive Records had yet to sign Blastmaster KRS-1, but they were enjoying a strong run at the Black Radio format with WBLS-FM DJ, Mr. Magic’s proteges, Whodini. MTV had not yet launched Yo MTV Raps. Tommy Boy Records hadn’t released De La Soul or Queen Latifah yet, and hop was heard in clubs and sparingly on the radio, and was embraced by a rabid underground fan base.

 

 

THE R AND ERIC B

 

On the whole, in New York, with few exceptions, rap records were confined to mix show exposure on weekends and the majority of them never received the regular rotation that would have given them longer life spans. WRKS-FM was chasing a youth demo and was the most likely to rock the realness with intensity, and so it was there on a Saturday night in May of ’86. I heard “Eric B Is President” for the first time. At the time, I was an independent promotion exec with the contacts, credibility and juice to get a rap record into a regular rotation, so I made it my business to be on the lookout for hot new releases that were signed to labels without the clout or connects to get their record rocked properly, so I listened to mix shows because I was on the lookout for opportunity and because hip hop provided hours of endlessly entertaining listening.

Red Alert was one of the weekend jocks on WRKS-FM with a mix show, and it was during his three hour weekly set that I heard the gravel voiced MC with the nasally delivery, and funky flow over the tricky stop and go kick drum program with the bass line from Fonda Rae’s “Over Like A Fat Rat.” At the time, Red didn’t crack the mike to speak, so I couldn’t tell who the brash newcomer was who was kicking it about how he, “came through the door/ heard it before/,” and how he would, “never let the mic magnetize me no more.”

The following week, I ran into Red on the set for the video of Run/DMC’s “Walk This Way” and asked what was the hottest new record he was playing at the time. He said, “That joint by Eric B and Rakim.”

“Who’s that?” I asked.

That joint where the kid says, “You thought I was a doughnut/you tried to glaze me.”

Very dangerous record. The previous Rock and Roll Hall of Fame class that included the Beastie Boys, left Eric B and Rakim on the outside looking in. True hip hop heads who are concerned about such matters were bewildered by the slight, and made their disappointment known. Questions of an uninformed voting body that didn’t recognize authenticity arose. Murmurs of racism could be heard. Personally, I am not certain that Rakim has recorded enough to be recognized, but if its a question of pure talent, there has never been a rapper with more. Happy birthday Rakim, everything changed after you got on the mic. 

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It’s All Over

 

 

Back when everything coming out of the radio was funky, the Ohio Players were amongst the funkiest. In the early ’70s they’d had a modest run of important and mildly commercially successful releases that were fronted by keyboardist and vocalist, Junie Morrison. Their string of dope and provocatively titled albums “Pain”, “Pleasure”, “Climax” and “Ecstasy” were required listening. The album covers were crazy. Classic color flicks of hotties covered in honey, provocatively dressed as fireman, wearing leather, and chains or tantalizingly threatening to tame undisciplined lovers with whips. The music was progressive; a combination of jazz, blues, gospel and acid that stuck to your ribs like home cooking. They were the truth.

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A dispute within the band and with their label, caused them to leave the independently distributed Westbound Records and sign with Mercury, one of the corporate recording giants of the era, and to switch lead vocalists to the blues influenced guitarist, Leroy “Sugarfoot” Bonner. These proved to be fortuitous decisions. 

It was early ’74 when the newly configured Players released “Skintight” the title track from the classic album for Mercury and begin what ultimately proved to be the commercial and creative peak for the band. This was also the first single that featured “Sugarfoot” on lead vocals. He was blusey, churcy and street all at the same time. His guitar perfecly complimented his lustful and tender features on “Fire”, “Love Rollercoaster” and the classic, “Heaven Must Be Like This”.  A few hours ago, I found out that “Sugarfoot” died, the world is a little less funky tonight. RIP

 

 

 

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The Poet

 

BOBBY WOMACK

 

 

I’m taking some time off of Facebook. Too many posts of uniformed opinions by shallow and callous people were wearing me down and increasingly, it became less and less inspiring. I don’t want to come off as someone who needs FB for inspiration, but when it is good, I have a network of friends, contacts and associates who have thoughtful and witty observations to share, and insightful comments and opinions to offer on a wide array of topics. I consider myself blessed, and I am grateful to have access to the various ways that many of them think.

I like to be informed, and one of the things that I enjoy most about the site is the newsfeed feature. I have curated my group page “likes” so that several well respected news organizations send developing and breaking stories across my monitor all day. I also have many friends in media so they augment that news flow with personal posts from publications that I may or may not have on my newsfeed.

I have missed a story or two since late last year because I am curbing my TV habit too. Are these New Year’s resolutions? I don’t know, but I am resolved to both read and write more, and I can’t seem to figure out how to do more of either if I’m watching TV or surfing FB all the time. In my attempt to regain my time and make it more productive, I have restricted my social media get down to Twitter and Tumblr.  As a result, I have discovered an amazing Tumblr page called The Electric Typewriter. It’s an amazing site that contains essays and articles written by top shelf journalists and authors. Check it out when you can.

And on Twitter, one of my former label mates, Tweeted a story that has shocked many of us in the music and arts community, Soul Music icon and Rock & Roll Hall of Famer, Bobby Womack has been diagnosed with early onset Alzheimer’s disease. One of the greatest singer/song writers of my childhood will no longer be able to remember the words to “Harry Hippy”, “A Woman’s Gotta Have It”, “Across 110th Street” and “I Can Understand It”. This latest tragic development comes on the heels of his recent recovery from colon cancer.

We only met once. He had a hit duet with the ’60s British blue eyed soul singer Lulu. The president of EMI got excited about the record and in a label wide marketing meeting, he announced that he would be proud to sign Bobby Womack. I am not certain that anyone in the room knew who he was or how to reach him for a meeting-so I did my thing.

Legendary entrepreneur Sparkie Martin was the manager at the time. I reached and set up a morning meeting that they were on time for. Even though it was 10:00 AM, Bobby had already been drinking. It made no difference to me; I was honored to be in the presence of a great historic figure.

It was soon apparent that Bobby really had no intention of signing with some kid at a major label, but he was upbeat and polite. Once we got that out of the way, I played demos for him from D’Angelo’s “Brown Sugar” album so that I could get his take. I told him that I’d run into Isaac Hayes on a flight from LA, and given him a lift home. During the ride, I’d also played the same demos for Black Moses, and he said, “Damn, he sounds like me, don’t he?”

Bobby didn’t hesitate and said, “Isaac is full of shit. He ain’t never sounded this good.” Bobby may have already forgotten that he said it, but along with his music, I never will.

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Shouts to Edna Collison, Darnell Martin, Amy Linden and Soul City

For Macho

Lesvia Castro is a Black Music vet with strong ties to Soul City. She has been a friend of the playa’s for 25 years. She worked in video when it was cool, A&R when it meant something and is currently in the marketing department at Universal Records. She is of Puerto Rican descent and a writer with flair.

Last week, Puerto Rican boxing legend, Hector “Macho” Camacho, the scrapping New Yorker, who fought his way out of Spanish Harlem to be a four time world champion, was murdered on the island of his people. He was a magical figure who captured the imagination of every New Yorker with a dream. The news of his death broke my heart and prompted me to request a guest blog from Lesvia. Here it is.

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THE CHAMP

I admired Hector Camacho’s skills in the ring and loved that he was Borinqueno. This made the love fest more intense for me because he was one of our own, and his ascension into the boxing world as one of the greats, elicited national pride for Puerto Ricans on the island and on the mainland. We loved that he never forgot about the island of enchantment, where he was born.

I also admired that after doing a short bid for some dumb shit he did uptown, he would square off with dudes behind the wall, and after seeing how great a fighter he was, one of them spoke 5 words to him that would forever change the trajectory of his life, “what are you doing here?” After that stint in jail, the cocky kid escaped the mean streets of Spanish Harlem by focusing on fostering his God-given ability to box, and ultimately earned three time New York Golden Gloves Champion and four time World Champ status.

Camacho was a lionizing figure in the sports world with a brash character. He strutted his way to fame with that single, annoying, power curl that dangled faithfully from the middle of his forehead, and its longer, even more annoying follicle bredren, that hung from the lower back of his head. He lacked humility and was too Hollywood for some. He was a colorful guy, who did it big, with flamboyance in and outside of the ring. His aggressive and outspoken attitude, his SUPA sized persona, his ladies’ man status and the offensive amounts of jewelry he wore proudly, sealed this impression in the public’s mind.

I never really liked that he was so full of himself or that he liked to wage psychological warfare on his opponents, but I resolved that it was part of the ever-present mind fuck that boxers use to instill the intimidation prior to squaring off in the ring. Once, he had the audacity brass cojones to feminize a challenger by sending him a pair of red lace panties before a fight. To ensure that he would open the gift, Camacho had the box addressed as if it had come from the Governor of Puerto Rico. Along with many of the fans who were in attendance at MSG, the night the two fighters battled for the world lightweight title, I believed that Edwin Rosario, his fellow Puerto Rican, kicked his ass. The cacophony of “boos,” when the winner was announced, told me so. Many believed (me included) that the fight was unfairly called for Camacho.

The Julio Cesar Chavez fight showed the world what Camacho was made of. He was outclassed, outfought and pummeled ferociously. When it became apparent that there was no beating Chavez, he stood his ground and didn’t quit. He carried the pride of a nation into the ring with him that night and made us all beam with joy. He was a MACHO man and macho men, who grow up in Spanish Harlem by way of Bayamon Puerto Rico, don’t quit! And, he didn’t! He famously said at the post-fight conference “I just got my ass kicked, but I’m still ready to party!” That was the essence of who he was.

Oscar De La Hoya, who put Camacho on the canvas and defeated him for the WBC welterweight title on Sept. 13, 1997, tweeted: “May your soul rest in peace my friend. You are a warrior gladiator and a special human being. We will miss you dearly and will always love you. I remember Emanuel Steward told me, “You are not going to knock him out, his chin is made of granite and his heart is twice the size!”

THE AUTHOR

In the end, Hector “Macho” Camacho was a misunderstood soul, who couldn’t get out of his own way. I wanted him to win…not just in the ring, but in life. He said that he was back and that he was done with all the extra-curricular activities that overshadowed his greatness as a warrior. But since he raced toward his death by keeping suspect friendships in his midst, he’s left us all in disbelief, broken hearted, confused and in mourning.

Tragically, at 50 years of age, he was much too young to have made his departure from this life in such a violent manner. His spirit remains, however, in the heart of his fans that accepted the man with all his faults. Though he pursued his life with reckless abandon, he was an icon in Puerto Rican popular culture and will always be remembered as a skilled boxer and brilliant promotion man with unmitigated audacity, that easily rivaled that of Don King’s. I hope the peace that eluded him in life, has finally found him in death. Que en paz descances, Campeon Borinqueno! It will always be MACHO TIME in our hearts…

Lesvia Castro