Way Back When Our Faces Were Young And Thin

“Oh my damn!” we silently think to ourselves. “What the hell happened to YOU?! Your face. It blew up, yo! It’s… like ... you just swallowed a damn pumpkin!”


It’s so good to reconnect with old friends. Nothing quite beats that feeling of having shared many of the same experiences and memories, laughed at the same jokes, feared those same fears and shared an affinity mixed with a rich and varied history we have with another person. Yet, in our mind’s eye, when we see or think of those old friends, it’s usually in the way they were, the way they appeared when we last saw them. We don’t always allow for time to do that sly thing and hideous THING it does to all of us: It ages and matures us to the point where we barely recognize each other anymore.

I took particular notice of this last week as I attended a funeral for one of the old neighborhood's elder women. She was very much beloved and we all had warm stories and vivid memories of our adventures in her presence. For instance, for decades, each 4th of July, she would plan these elaborate barbecues where everyone who was anyone within the community regularly attended. She was quite the hostess, an expert chef/griller and her food was always top-shelf delicious. Her spacious backyard became the IN spot, the holiday jump-off, and the hottest place to be.

Rest in Peace, Miss Easter.


And so, with her passing, and because she was so beloved, people came from near and far to honor her memory. It was a wonderful thing to see. Many of these people were faces from my childhood and teen years. I had not laid eyes on some of them in about 20, 25, hell, even 30 years!


After the ceremony, people were stepping to me, as people usually tend to do at such events. They seemed to know my name, to remember me vividly, and that felt strange because these were people who I didn’t know, had no recall of ever knowing, and it caught me by complete surprise. But the biggest surprise came when they REINTRODUCED themselves to me.

Meanwhile, I’m thinking: Oh snap! Oh MY Damn! That’s YOU under all that?


Yes. I know I’m wrong, but that’s me just being real, mentally. I would never say it out loud. It’s just a bit astonishing to see someone you once knew has become this whole OTHER person physically. But it’s also another naked fact of life: Unless we have a plastic surgeon on speed dial, we don’t tend to get prettier or more handsome as we grow older. We change. The body shifts and it morphs. The pounds appear. The gray hairs sprout. The wrinkles settle in…



… and we are no longer the hotness, or the serene beauty queens…




… and awesome Adonis boys of yesterday.


Sad but true.


So as I’m conversing with this person from my previous life as a young buck, I began to do a visual survey by looking for signs of the person I once knew. That’s when it HIT me: Do the people we haven't seen in years all develop chubbier faces? I mean is this to be our true fate: Fat-face-did-ness?

(ponder)


Unless you happen to be naturally or unnaturally angular, maybe sporting a fatter, fleshier aspect is simply the way we tend to age. We don’t obsess about it… in fact, we hardly pay this much attention. However, when we see an unflattering picture of ourselves, and we silently recoil... then ummm... that's a problem. Also, when something happens, some watershed event or some benchmark episode occurs and it brings people together, it has the feel and vibe of a high school reunion, and it’s then we are suddenly face to face, eyeball-to-eyeball with our reality.

And it is then that we are reminded of how time changes the mugs of those people we knew long ago, back when we were young and we all had thinner faces.

This may just become my new reference point to measure how long I’ve known someone. Example: Hell, we go back, waaay back to when we BOTH had skinny faces!

But having noticed that one old friend’s (once thin) head was now a BIG, cheeky ballooning dome, that was just the beginning. It seemed as if people would appear out of the proverbial woodwork to remind me of this strange and growing phenomenon. So many of my old school friends showed up and ALL of them sported these rounder, chubbier faces (yes, myself included)... even the formerly skinny people... and suddenly I was left wondering "What's up with this?"




It can be gradual… so gradual as to be one of life’s more insidious occurrences. Stuff happens to us and we don’t even notice it. We’re too damn busy living our lives to pay any attention. And then, something happens, and it suddenly opens our eyes: “Oh my damn!” we silently think to ourselves:



“What the hell happened to YOU?! Your face. It blew up, yo! It’s… like ... you just swallowed a damn pumpkin!”


And please believe I’m not only cracking on the rest of them. I fully own up to my personal bout of pumpkin-headed fat-facedid-ness!




(Top): The more angular Lin…




(Bottom): The current, more fat-facedid Lin…




There are some days I’ll accidentally catch a glimpse in the mirror to find I'm repulsed... because suddenly I possess these mad puffy-verging-on-Dizzy Gillespie-type cheeks!

EGAD!




WTF?


This is all very odd because, most of the elderly people I know tend to have thin, sunken-in faces. So, perhaps this is all a part of that whole middle-age-spread concept… and IF we live to become older and more elderly, we can at least look forward to a frailer face, and thinner physique.

Who knows.


It’s reached almost epidemic in proportion as it effects the people I know personally. When did it happen that so many of us became afflicted with this dreaded disease of: Fat-Facedid-ness? It seems we are not our physical selves anymore… no… we just become these older people with BIG faces.


Don’t believe me? Go on, do your own visual survey. Trust me, it won’t always be pretty. But it will be LIFE!


One.

Poem For Miss Sylvia (Who Lived and Cooked and Smiled… and We Were Glad)

Sylvia Woods ~ 1926-2012

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!




I remember Sylvia’s
Soul Food Restaurant
The way a small kid’s taste buds
Remember deliciousness, and
I recall Harlem-brown women
Stirring, boiling, baking, sweatin’
In tiny kitchens, preparing
Ambrosia with heaping helpings of
Love. I remember Sylvia’s

Soul Food Restaurant
In the colorful sway and easy flaunt of
Black people,
Brown, white, yellow and
Rainbow people
Getting a serious grub on…
You see, Miss Sylvia could
So easily charm ‘em and then
Her food could
Disarm ‘em with harmony.

I remember Miss Sylvia’s
Soul Food Restaurant
Like a flash of some celebrity’s
Sparkle in my
Left eye, and the sweet
Sound of Gospel
Music in my right ear.


Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Fix, here!

Southern fried chicken,
Smothered chops
Cornbread and grits
Sassy Catfish and collards
Macaroni and cheese
Sweet potato pound cake
And please, don’t even
Get me started on
Miss Sylvia’s Banana Puddin’

Laws Ham Merrrrrrcyyyy!

When I heard she’d passed
I felt saddened, like the rest
Of Harlem… and the world at large.
But then I just know now
The angels must chowin’ down
Getting their grub on
Their wings growing heavier
Lips bustin', eyes rollin,
With traces of
Heaven upon their tongues.

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!


We, who have witnessed
Her smile, or tasted
Her menu…
We thank you, so much
Miss Sylvia…
For whether young or old
Rich or poor, you have
Served and fed generations
And more…

The time has come to remove
Your apron, to loosen those strings,
To let them know you were
"The Queen
Of Soul Food..." as you
Sit down with kings
At the table before your
Heavenly Host.
And you can grin
That shy, Miss Sylvia grin…
And it’s okay to boast
How we on earth say your name
With smiles… and think of
The treasure you’ve given to Harlem
And think of the pleasure you’ve given
The world.

See, it’s called: leaving behind
A Legacy.


Not bad, for a colored girl
From South Carolina with
Some Soul
Food recipes and
A dream.


Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!

Surry down, get your
Stoned Soul Food Fix!





One.

*About Black Fedoras And Summer Sunday Rides With My Father

He knew how to wear a hat.

Trust me... that’s not always an easy (hat-) trick, when you’re a Black man, trying *not* to look like a pimp, a mack, a dandy, a fop or a player. My father was neither of those, yet he could rock a mean hat. Some cats just have it like that, instinctively.


My father possessed that uniquely smooth and utterly rare gift of slipping on a chapeau and becoming this cool and mysteriously enigmatic character. Though barely 5’8, he always stood taller in his fedora. It seemed as if his posture changed and he became this whole other Larger Being… at least, in my eyes.

I was discussing this phenom with my mom yesterday, as we were approaching yet another Father’s Day without his presence. Because his absence remains very much a FELT experience, she seemed determined to remember to be sad. And while I could only validate that emotion for her, an extended appointment with sadness was not placed upon my schedule. Instead, I spoke of a certain bronze-colored Oldsmobile Delta 88; how my father would take the family for long rides on summer Sunday afternoons, and how, from the backseat, in his fedora, he resembled some quietly Elegant Black King to my eyes.

When he died there inside that ER, a nurse brought his possessions into the waiting room. Perhaps she thought it would be too much for my mother to handle, so she signaled me into a quiet corner and she handed me his gold retirement watch, and his wedding band.

I tried like hell not to breakdown, fall to my knees, and weep like some little suddenly fatherless child, especially there in that setting. Although my brother publicly lost it, I'd somehow retained my stoic older bother composure. It was a very strange and rainy December day. It felt even stranger to me, holding those articles in my hand, as if the were supposed to somehow now represent this man I’d fondly called, “Da.”

A day or so after this, in a quieter, less hectic moment, I presented those articles to my mother. I hugged her tightly and for the longest time. Mind you, I still hadn’t cried, but I’d been meaning to. Curiously, that time would come much later.

After the funeral and after all the guests, after the food was consumed, and the stories were told, and the emotions displayed, after the hubbub and the shows of sympathy, when everything sat quietly in its own haunted space, my mother asked if wanted anything of my father’s.

I thought for a minute about the car (which never was my style) and the clothes (ditto, and were way too small), and finally, I said,

“You know that black fedora? The one he wore back in the day when he’d take us on those Sunday drives? I think I’d like to have that hat.”

Maybe it seemed like a peculiarly atypical request. But then, that was just me, being me. I was always her ‘strange poet son,’ and so she just shrugged, went into the closet they’d shared for over 35 years, fetched that hat, and she handed it to me.

I’ve placed it upon the top shelf in my closet. I hardly ever wear it. Over the years, I’ve thought of it as a kind of trophy to the modesty of his life, his quiet elegance; his one slice of mysterious cool, and his subtle sense of royalty.


And so, on Father’s Day, in lieu of tears, and instead of episodes in sadness, I slipped on that black fedora, and tried like hell to mirror my father’s style-- not pimp, not mack, not player, not fop, not dandy.

You know, just a Black man, in a black chapeau, with a smooth gift for becoming a cool and mysteriously enigmatic character.




That’s it. That’s all.


Happy Father’s Day to all you father’s out there, whether bio, step, adoptive, cat daddies or big daddies… and a Very Happy Father’s Day in Heaven to YOU, Da.


One Love.


Your son,

Lin



* repost

A Brief Freedom

For My Friend B.B.

1970-2012


Death is inevitable here, my friend. As sure as rape and theft and overcrowded subways, death, for some of us, is just a station stop away. If we’re lucky… if we’re Blessed, Life slows down a piece... and grants us a sweet reprieve. It is released inside this freedom of poetry.

My Highest, Most Greatest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent SCREAM heard from others expectations of me, versus, this unquenchable hunger, this insatiable thirst of my undying ambition. Quite simply: I am a slave to this shit.

In the frosted fields between the sheets of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality. It is always hiding, like a shy ghost, inside of my deepest self. Life, for me, has been this journey through streets of Sadness and Euphoria, with a brief but necessary escape inside the plains of poetry.

And I’ve known some poets... Real Poets... such Beautiful, Living, Breathing Poets; scribes so much Higher and Greater than me.

And after living their heroic little lives, they’ve died their invisible deaths.

This weekend someone else’s earthly suffering came to an end. This weekend, another poet friend of mine expired.


Today, once again, Life for me has become this brief excursion into the freedom of poetry.

I am reminded of how some vile thing or some monstrous entity always comes along to kill this poetry in us.

Death, it just keeps chasing us, stalking us, walking beside, and then, running after us.

Death by winter... in a cold-shouldered America. Death by failure’s sharp and jagged needle. Death by trigger-fingered cop. Death by a city’s speeding stopwatch. Death by some incorrect, mistaken identity. Death by some ignorant-assed vigilante. Death by merciless abject poverty. Death by a lonely man’s disease. Death by some obscene and unnatural cause will come for us, just as it came for him…

And we will grieve.

As blackly beautiful and brilliant as he was, his life should have never been cut so damned brief! I get it, though. I do. Between us there are few differences. We are bittersweet slaves to an Art, a Mistress, and to a World of thieves that will ultimately betray us! I get it!

Life, for me, is this brief and tragic hesitation. I fill in the gaps and gaping holes with broken prose and poetry.

His life was terse, composed of heavy heart and crying verse. His life, it should have been a song. Instead it proved to be... a broken stanza... an aborted passage.

Yo! Would someone please throw him a jazz funeral, damn it!





And send him home most righteously! Let those dark cherubic-faced men blow their horns through the streets for him!

Celebrate him! His life! His gift! Speak poems, say odes, sing hymns to his spirit! And then, being that we are such carelessly foolish humans, we’ll forget just what made his soul so rich and special, so unique, and beautiful.


It happens all the time. I’ve seen this shit happen to my own father; the way people just forget the Shine from his Star. I’ve come to expect nothing more, nothing less than this, for it is his plight, and my plight, and perhaps all of our plights.


My Highest Good is a dueling dream. It is fueled by the urgent scream of divergent expectations of me. It remains this unquenched, insatiable thirst of undying ambition. In the frosted fields of my sleep, I am haunted by this duality.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

Life, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.

LIFE, for me, has mostly been this reed-thin freedom I find in poetry.


I wish you golden days and lyrical nights of radiant riffs and open mics and Gabriel blowing Cool Jazz on his horn... and from the neon-lit clouds on the hipper side of Heaven, I wish you Thunderous fingersnaps.


That's it. That's all.

Au revoir, Bonne nuit, Mon Ami.


One.

Endangered At 17: Poem For Trayvon Martin

I remember being 17, living on Lays
Potato chips, chili dogs and Wonder bread…
Would never be caught dead
Or seen without
My Swedish knits and
Chuck Taylors… with Stevie
Wonder blasting Superstition
In my head. I remember

Playing Spades, and scratching myself in
“Nasty” places, full of raging
Hormones, adrenaline and
Silent fear. I remember how it feels

To live in Black skin. Being told
By my mother, I was “beautiful.”
Being told by teachers, I was “Artistic”
And yes even “Gifted…” but
Never once told I was invincible. I remember this
As surely as I recall walking
Home from the movies, at night, and

Being stopped by local cops
Because I fit the descript
Of some hot-
Wired black boy who might just
Explode… who
Was up to some no good,
Criminally-minded shit,
When it was neither my behavior,
My nature,
Nor my actions but
The color of my skin which
Dictated this.

I remember feeling diminished, and
Embittered, enraged,
And endangered for the first time
At age 17... when I should have felt
Young and wild and free
And full of possibilities… Like you,

Trayvon… Angelic-faced manchild
Of a brown-skin hue. Almost
Brand new in the world,
Caught up inside that swirl of
Confusion... and yet
Another senseless
Victim to the paranoia of
Another racist fool.




Did you fit that tragic
Descript too, Trayvon?
Hoodie-clad and armed with
Skittles and iced tea? How dangerous!



How deadly
You must be. How deadly!
How..? Deadly?

How dead.








One.





© 2012 by L.M.Ross moaningmanblues All Rights Reserved

Say Goodbye To Hollywood, To Luiggi… And The Gang At P & D’s Pizzeria

Has this ever happened to you?


It’s a late afternoon that's swiftly turning into evening. You’ve been sticking to your diet like a champ in training, but damn it, the time for fun has come and you deserve a special treat! You’re in the mood for your favorite food. You begin to crave this food so much you can actually TASTE it on your tongue. You know its flavor by heart. It’s so mad-crazy-stoopid delicious, you’re actually salivating. It's sooo damned good, even your senses trip and begin hallucinating. This becomes your one and only preoccupation.



You just can’t WAIT to sink your teefus into this delectable meal. It’s… it’s even mo betta than great sloppy sex... on dough!




This object of desire could be most anything edible and mad luscious. In my case, it happens to be that once–a-month slice of mouth-watering NY-style pizza served up so spicy-hot with that tasty killa combo. Yes, that combo! It has become so familiar to the senses and to the people working within the establishment that it has earned its own shorthand nickname: “Pizza/ MOP.” M.O.P = Meatballs, Onions & Peppers. Oh my!





Luiggi knows how to do it up most righteously. It’s long ago become akin to witnessing fine performance art just to watch him flipping the dough and then making a spectacle of olive oil, tomato sauce, mozzarella, parmesan and shredded feta cheeses. There’s so much love in this cat’s work. There’s a sense of pride in knowing that he’s creating these edible masterpieces for the masses, sometimes cranking out about a hundred of them a day.


This place, this joint, this spot, this boite has become such a usual and perhaps even vital part of your world, your sphere, your lifestyle and your steelo, that you begin to think of it as your own personal Cheers. Yes, everybody there KNOWS your name. Sometimes, they even shout it out in unison when you enter.

"LINNNNNNNNNNNNNN!"

And afterwards, the more somber, buttoned-up waitress addresses you as "Leonardo."


This is love, right? It’s like your second-home. This is your Valhalla and your Mecca. It’s your sweet spot and your ambrosia!



The atmosphere is friendly and clean, but not too ornate or fancy. It suits you. It invites you inside to partake in a variety of Italian cuisine and culinary delights. You like it here. You can kick back and exhale here. Ahhh yes...


So you turn that familiar corner, hungry, beyond hungry… just so damned anxious to taste that nirvana on your tongue... And then... you notice how the place looks somehow different and strange and unusually darker. Hmmm… you wonder: Are they going for a newer, dimmer ambiance? Then you attempt to open the door, this entrance to your second home, expecting to be hit by the smells of all those delicious aromas wafting up your nostrils, and that patter of friendly banter caressing your ears, and the employees there to call out your name like they tend to do, which both embarrasses and welcomes you… ONLY... the door never opens... those aromas never arrive... and the banter never materializes.

That damn door is LOCKED!


WTF?

It’s closed, yo. Closed? No. NOOOOOOOOOOOO! Can't be. This is madness! Aiiight now… stop playin’ y’ all! I’m serious! Hey, its Lin, yo! Open up!

Only no one ever comes to the door, and no one is there to greet you.

This place, your second home; that dome of heavenly aromas is gone. Is no more.... is Poof! Is... ghost! Is... Out. Of. Business!


Pipe in that Esther Rolle as Florida Evans patented 1, 2, 3, 4 times with feeling:


"Damn! DAMN! DaMMMMN! Day-YUM!"

No one told you. No one warned you. No one ever gave any clue that this day was coming.

You feel all at once: ravenous and foolish. This feeling soon morphs into chronic states of disbelief, disappointment and then... betrayal. This suddenly shifts into curiosity, grief, anger and something like a death within your immediate family.


How could this possibly happen? Where the HELL will you get your pasta fix, now?

More importantly: What will happen to the workers, the cooks, the waiters and waitresses? What will become of the ambitious bartender who wanted to be an actor, and had once appeared in a bit role on an episode of Law and Order, and who never failed to mention it once you indulged in conversation that lasted longer than a minute or two? What would become of these beautiful people with their humble plans and their dreams, their ambitions and their families?


Yes, the hunger pangs are physical and pressing, but it’s the Bigger Picture that is haunting and much more overwhelming.

This economy is a beast that gobbles up the dreams of little people in one fell swoop.

This economy is a bitch that gnaws at the arms and legs and the vital parts of this collective body we call America.

This economy is taking the (fast) food from my mouth, and squashing the souls of those who once served it up with a smile.

Yes. They’ve turned off all the ovens, shut off the lights, and bolted the door shut to my favorite pizzeria.

Never again will I imbibe in the utter lusciousness of a 'MOP' slice.

*sigh*

Never again will I hear my name shouted in some slightly Italian accent as I enter that small piece of urban paradise.


This isht hurts so much… and not just within that gnawing empty space inside of my belly.


Nah. It's so much BIGGER than that!


This time... it’s gotten personal!



"Damn! DAMN! DaMMMMN! Day-YUM!"


One.

If Only You Had a Vision And Someone Had Listened: For Michael And Whitney...

Sometimes, you don’t have to be a fortune teller, a psychic or even clairvoyant to see into the future.

Sometimes, if you just live long enough, you can see the destiny of others unfold before your eyes.

Sometimes, you’d rather not know any details of that destiny, because it isn’t always so pretty.

Sometimes, you come to know things, only GOD should know, like what will happen, to whom it will happen, and when…

Sometimes, if you live long enough, you see the warmth of youthful smiles turn older, colder, as the glory days come, go, and slowly burn away from the heat of a million suns.

Sometimes, it hurts to see, to watch, to grieve, to experience Life’s twists and turns and such sadness manifest from an impotent distance…

If only you had a vision, and someone would have listened. If only you had a vision and someone would have listened. If only… if only you could have said:

“I’ve seen this movie already. Trust me. It doesn’t have a happy ending.”

Who would have listened? Who would have believed it?




Michael: “Smile! The future’s so bright, we’ll BOTH have to wear Wayfarer shades, Whit!”



Damn. Just damn. I just caught a chill. Did you?




One.

Whitney: Au revoir, la bonne nuit, l'Adieu, Notre la plupart de Glorieux Diva.

1963-2012


Those Who Knew You In Newark Still Call You "Nippy." To Close Friends And Family, You Will Always Be "Nippy." To The World, And For The Ages, You Will Always Be
Whitney... Just Whitney...

Our Greatest Songbird! Our Iconic Princess! Majestic and Regal!
Our Hope! Our Most
Magnificent Whitney!!!


We Thank You So Much For Your Gift. You Possessed A Voice, Kissed By the Gods. It Was Spine-Tingling! It Was Sublime! Though, Sometimes This Sadness In Us Wishes You Had Treated It, And Yourself, Kinder.


Still, We Shall Never Forget The Force, The Gusto, The Sheer JOY This Voice
Could Bring To Us All. All Grit And Gospel! All Passionate Pop! All Shimmering Angelic Soul. Oh! God! How We Lived For The Sonic Thrill And The Soar Of It!
That Voice Could Pour Out Like Honey And Holy Water And Soundly, Most Profoundly Baptize Us All.

That Voice Was The Stuff Of Star-Fire, and Waterfalls...

Then Suddenly The Sky Darkened... And That Voice Was Gone.

You Can Rest Easy Now, Whitney... Soar Your Highest, Most Pristine Note
Inside The Heavens Now. Open Your Mouth, And Let That Symphony
Within Your Soul Fly Free, Now!


And As You Did Here, On Earth, Leave The Gossips With Something
To Talk About... Just Sing And Bring Those Goosebumps Upon
The Angels Skin!

The Lights Have Dimmed. Take A Bow. Fly Home Now, Nippy. And God's Speed To Whitney Houston. Our Most Beautiful...
And Troubled
Diva.







One.

Rest In "Love, Peace & SoouuuuulllllllI" Don Cornelius

LOS ANGELES (AP) — Don Cornelius, creator of the long-running and pioneering TV dance show "Soul Train," shot himself to death Wednesday morning at his home, police said. He was 75.

Officer responding to a report of a shooting found Cornelius at his Mulholland Drive home at around 4 a.m., police said.

He was pronounced dead of a self-inflicted gunshot wound at 4:56 a.m. at Cedars-Sinai Medical Center, said Los Angeles County Assistant Chief Coroner Ed Winter.

"Soul Train" was one of the first U.S. shows to showcase African-Americans prominently, and it introduced television audiences to such legendary artists as Aretha Franklin, Marvin Gaye and Barry White.

The show began in Chicago as a local program in 1970 and aired nationally from 1971 to 2006, bringing the best rhythm & blues, soul and later hip-hop acts to TV and having teenagers dance to them. Cornelius was the first host and executive producer.

"There was not programming that targeted any particular ethnicity," Cornelius said in 2006, then added: "I'm trying to use euphemisms here, trying to avoid saying there was no television for black folks, which they knew was for them."

Cornelius, who was inducted into the Broadcasting and Cable Hall of Fame in 1995 and has a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, said in 2006 he remained grateful to the musicians who made "Soul Train" the destination for the best and latest in black music.

"I figured as long as the music stayed hot and important and good, that there would always be a reason for 'Soul Train,'" Cornelius said.

He stepped down as "Soul Train" host in 1993.

The Soul Train Awards Cornelius founded will return to the air after a two-year hiatus to recognize those who helped shape R&B music.

Record executive Antonio "L.A." Reid, singers Kenny "Babyface" Edmonds, Chaka Khan and Charlie Wilson will be honored on the two-hour music special scheduled to air next Nov. 29. Actors Taraji P. Henson and Terrence Howard will co-host the awards.


The sources said there was no sign of foul play, but the Los Angeles Police Department was investigating.

In a 2010 interview with The Times, he said he was excited about a movie project he was developing about "Soul Train."

"We've been in discussions with several people about getting a movie off the ground. It wouldn't be the 'Soul Train' dance show, it would be more of a biographical look at the project," he said. "It's going to be about some of the things that really happened on the show."

According to a Times article, Cornelius’ “Soul Train” became the longest-running first-run nationally syndicated show in television history, bringing African American music and style to the world for 35 years.

Cornelius stopped hosting the show in 1993, and “Soul Train” ceased production in 2006.


Today is NOT the best way to begin the celebration of Black History Month. But then again, Life happens while we're all so busy making other plans.

This is truly a sad event and a tragic day within the entertainment industry, not only for those of us who happen to be African-Americans, but for the business of entertainment as a whole! Mr. Cornelius most definitely gave this country, the world and our entire culture a formal introduction and then an indoctrination into all forms of soul.

One only hopes that whatever demons darkened his Spirit have finally released him from their treacherous grip.

And now... may he rest in Love, Peace and Soul.

Live UNTIL you die, y'all!




One Love.

Reflections On The Life and Sound of Etta James

Loud and tender as a growling prayer, she was The Blues, embodied in fair skin and platinum hair.

She was a certified Blues traveler. The Blues were trapped inside the shoes she wore, and they wrapped themselves around her legs, her waistline, her vocal chords, and her Life, like indigo boa constrictors. She was so brilliantly bitter with a belly full of rage and those Blues were her Saving Grace; her calling card and her clarion call... But OH GOD! How she could release them from the trapdoor of her throat into the woozy skag and liquor filled night, sending them on a starry flight into our ears and our hearts!

Her life was hard, and so were some of her choices.

Her vocals were a cross, a mash-up between baptist church testimony and the sound of a broken heart; the stank of Saturday night's pool hall sin, and Sunday's wounded, skidmarked angel.

Such a soul-sangin' dame! She was the original Etta James. Yes. She was uniquely, bitter-sweetly Etta, damn it! And she will be missed.


Thank God for the music! That voice and those recordings will forever exist.




RIP, Jamesetta!

One.

La Bonne Nuit, Chanteur de Dame. Se Reposer Dans Paix, Teena Marie!

It’s all mvery strange, and I really can't explain why, but for the past 24 hours the old skool song "Portuguese Love" had been playing on a reel in my brain… and then... very early this morning... I awakened to the terrible news that soul singer Teena Marie had passed. Eerie. She was 54.

The first expression other than complete disbelief becomes: OH NO! NOT LADY T!!!!



Teena was a mad soulful, raw, emotionally powerful and deeply stirring vocalist who could truly put it DOWN, give you goosebumps, make you stomp your feet and just say day-YUM! She was also an ARTIST who wrote and crafted brilliant poetry that became songs, and who played several instruments with a mastery rarely seen in female performers. This woman was a real creative force! It feels so odd to even refer to her in the past-tense... but sadly... I must.

She had several hits in the early and mid 80s such as "Lovergirl," "Behind The Groove," and "Square Biz" …
and the highly-charged "Fire and Desire" with her mentor Rick James.


The confirmation of her death came from a publicist, Jasmine Vega, who worked with Teena Marie on her last album. According to some reports, she'd died in her sleep and was later found by her teenaged daughter.

She was born Mary Christine Brockert in Santa Monica California, and from early on had a strong African-American influence guiding her, due to a godmother. Teena Marie was also known as "Lady T," and by the term she herself had coined: "The Ivory Queen of Soul." Although she was the first white female vocalist ever signed to Motown, she certainly wasn't the first white act to love, appreciate or sing soul music, however, she was arguably among the most gifted, most respected, and the one who was thoroughly embraced by black audiences. Anyone black, white, red, brown or yellow who appreciated the magic of soul music had love for Teena Marie.




On a personal note: I recall my mother (who was not really hip to Lady T) just happened to witness her singing “His Eye Is On The Sparrow” one Sunday morning. She then frantically called me up demanding that I tune into BET because, as she put it: “There’s some white girl on here... and she sure can SANG!”

When I turned the channel to find it was Teena doing what Teena did so brilliantly, I could only laugh. “Ummm... yeah, ma. She’s been singin' like that for the last 25 years, at least.”

Once Teena signed with Motown, back in 1979, she began working closely with Rick James. She and the Punk-funk bad-boy would share a long and turbulent personal life, but a magical musical partnership.

Ironically, the cover of her album, "Wild and Peaceful," did not feature her image, with Motown apparently fearing backlash by audiences if they found out the songstress with the bold and dynamic R & B chops was, in fact, white.

But she had her first hit, "I'm A Sucker for Your Love," and was on her way to becoming one of R&B's most revered queens. During her tenure with Motown, the singer-songwriter and musician produced passionate love songs and funk jam songs like "Need Your Lovin'," "Behind the Groove" and "Ooh La La La."

Her daughter Alia Rose (who has adopted the stage name "Rose Le Beau") is also a budding singer whom Teena would sometimes bring on stage with her to perform. In recent years Lady T had embarked upon touring again after overcoming an addiction to prescription drugs.


Teena Marie's last album, "Congo Square," was titled after a historical meeting place for slaves in New Orleans, featured a tribute to Martin Luther King's widow and also song "Black Cool," written for President Barack Obama.


We just keep losing people who are truly irreplaceable, and this absence saddens me deeply.


What will the future hold for music when the REAL soul singers we have left, keep dying?

Rhetorical.


*UPDATE:* Many of Lady T's friends, associates and admirers in the entertainment world spoke of her tremendous impact.

“A few months ago I saw her perform at a BET function in DC and I was sitting in the audience and was thinking to myself, ‘Where did the spirit of really finding joy in performing go?’ said singer/actor Tyrese.

“So many artists today, they get on stage and perform, and it’s like its just work and I’m here to get a check. She was up there sweating; they kept bringing her towels and water, she was just really doing her thing. She was on stage with the high heels and singing her life away. I just loved it. It was a breath of fresh air to be around somebody who, after so many years, still had a passion to be on stage for the love of music.”


Cindy Herron, a member of En Vogue, said: “It’s a loss for those who loves her music, but also the music world. She still had so much to offer.”

Last year, Teena Marie followed En Vogue at the Essence Music Festival in New Orleans, and Herron says she was “amazed because she’s such a showman.”

“She still had a great command of the audience; her musicianship and her singing ability. She still had so much to offer.”

Cathy Hughes, founder of Radio One, the largest black-owned radio company in the country, was shocked upon hearing of Marie’s death.
“Teena was a black voice trapped in a white body,” Hughes said. “I would always tell her that she was one of the greatest vocalists of our time.”

Singer Lionel Richie said that every time he'd see Teena Marie, the two always engaged in a running joke about her DNA.

“Every time I would say, ‘we need a root check!’” said a laughing Richie.
“You look at somebody like her and you go, ‘I know I’m looking at her, but it’s not translating. She was an amazing, soulful person. She’s a phenomenon to me.”

Addressing the issue of seeing a white woman with a “black voice,” Richie cut right to the point: “You have to say it. She had all of the street vibes and all of the R&B vocals, and it just didn’t match up with what you’re looking at.

“But one thing is for sure, when she walked on that stage, you didn’t want to be up there with her! If there is a word called talent or talented, it was pouring out of her veins. She was an amazing phenomenon.

“There was Chaka Khan, Patti Labelle and Teena Marie. And you don’t want to go on stage with any of them. Those three you just don’t play with. You don’t want to mention black and white, but that’s exactly what you thought about. It was an absolute phenomena to me.”

Eddie Levert, founder of the O’Jays, said, “in terms of vocals, she was one of the blackest people I know.”

“She was one of the great R&B performers of our time. She was a great person; just a nice person,” Levert said. “And she loved to perform. She got along well with everyone; even the promoters love her. She is going to be sorely missed.
“There a lot of black people who swore by her and believed in her, as far as her music was concerned. She was a good mom, and to me, that is saying a lot."




Holly Robinson Peete: "Teena Marie was an R&B Empress, a music pioneer, a brilliant songwriter/ producer with the most original powerhouse vocals ever.

 Nobody sang like Teena! But above all she was an exceptional human being, a humanitarian and an authentic friend who I will miss dearly. Rest With Angels Lady T.”

* * *



Indeed. Rest in Peace, Lady T!




One Love.

Bon Voyage, Mon Vonetta...

One of my very first and most lasting cinematic crushes has sadly made her transition. Actress Vonetta McGee, who appeared in such films as "Melinda," “Blacula,” “Hammer”,“Shaft in Africa,” and the Clint Eastwood thriller "The Eiger Sanction" died last Friday, on July 9th, in Berkeley, Calif.

She was 65 years old.


She was blessed with a remarkable presence, and it's hard to say what it was about her that initiated my boyhood crush. I just liked her, and she drew me into her silent spell, much like a rose draws you in with its singular fragrance. Even in an industry so thick with a populace of pretty people, she possessed one of those stunning faces and shimmering talents that stood out, and like some haunting hypnotist, she made you remember her. She was not only compelling and very beautiful, in a quiet, non-showy way, but she had loads of subtext written inside those glorious eyes of hers.


In “Blacula” (1972), Ms. McGee portrayed the love interest of Mamuwalde (William Marshall), an African prince who, after an ill-fated trip to Transylvania centuries earlier, re-emerges in modern Los Angeles as a member of the thirsty undead.

Reviewing the film in The New York Times, Roger Greenspun called Ms. McGee “just possibly the most beautiful woman currently acting in movies.”





Personally, I liked that this critic didn't place her inside that marginal professional ghetto of some all-too-common yet limited racial context, like 'the most beautiful black woman', but instead, he rightly acknowledged her universal appeal.


In “Hammer” (1972), Ms. McGee appeared opposite Fred Williamson in the tale of a young black prizefighter. In “Shaft in Africa” (1973), the third installment in the private-eye series starring Richard Roundtree, she played an emir’s daughter.

Ms. McGee’s other films include “The Kremlin Letter” (1970); “Detroit 9000” (1973); “Thomasine & Bushrod” (1974); and “The Eiger Sanction” (1975), directed by and starring Clint Eastwood.

Lawrence Vonetta McGee, named for her father, was born in San Francisco on Jan. 14, 1945. While studying pre-law at San Francisco State College, she became involved in community theater. She left college before graduating to pursue an acting career.


Ms. McGee’s first film work was in Italy, where her credits include the 1968 films “Faustina,” in which she played the title role, and “Il Grande Silenzio” (“The Great Silence”). After seeing her Italian work, Sidney Poitier arranged for her to be cast in her first American film, “The Lost Man” (1969), in which he starred.


In later years she always maintained her beauty and quiet elegance. She would have recurring roles on several television shows, among them “Hell Town,” “Bustin’ Loose,” “L.A. Law” and “Cagney & Lacey,” on which she portrayed the wife of Detective Mark Petrie, played by Carl Lumbly. Ms. McGee and Mr. Lumbly were married in 1986.


Besides Mr. Lumbly, Ms. McGee is survived by their son, Brandon Lumbly; her mother, Alma McGee; three brothers, Donald, Richard and Ronald; and a sister, also named Alma McGee.

Though she was associated in public memory with the genre, Ms. McGee deplored the term “blaxploitation.” It wasn’t the “black” that troubled her — that was a source of pride. It was the “exploitation.”

“She was constantly a person who preferred roles where women got to make choices,” Ms. Nayo said on Friday. “Where women got to be strong.”





* * * *

Rest in Peace, Lovely Sister. I shall always remember you with a certain youthful smile inside my heart.


One Love.

Lin