Bush Administration Destroys $5.9 Quadrillion in Value of American Lives

Video: Zaproot 47, July 2008

EPA Devalues Average American Life
In May, the US EPA re-calculated the 'value of a statistical life' as $6.9 million (US). This is a $900,000 (US) change in value since the last EPA calculation ($7.8 million) done in 2003. This -11% change in the value of an average American life is calculated by seeing the differences companies pay workers for jobs which have varying degrees of danger. It is used to determine whether projects which mitigate danger are worthwhile -- if the cost per statistical life saved is more than the value of a statistical life, the project is not economically viable, and contrariwise.

-11% for 5 years of George W. Bush doesn't really seem too bad, I supposed. That's only about -2%/year. 2%/year growth requires 36 years to double, so I figured -2% will require 36 years to halve. That's not so bad, because surely in the next 28 years we'll get at least one progressive President to fix the problems.

Then I took another look at the numbers.

You're probably aware that the US dollar has lost some value in the last few years. As a resident of Canada, I assure you that I'm aware of it. How does that effect this -11% number?

Badly, very badly

Let's view this 'value of a statistical life' in terms that relate to real-world quantities. We'll calculate the value of all American lives and then see the differences between the 2003 value and the 2008 value.

Population
On July 1, 2003, there were 290,447,644 Americans. On July 1, 2007 (the latest date the US Census Bureau has easily available, so we'll use that and ignore any change in population since then), there were 301,621,157 Americans.

Ounces of Gold
In 2003, the price of gold peaked at about $425/oz. In 2008, the lower end of the range gold has traded at is about $900/oz.

Barrels of Oil
In 2003, a barrel of oil traded for an average of $28. In the first half of 2008, about $98.

The Differences
At $7.8 million per, the value of American lives in 2003 was $2,265,492 billion, or 5331 billion ounces of gold, or 81,816 billion barrels of oil.

At $6.9 million per, the value of American lives in 2008 is $2,081,186 billion, or 2312 billion ounces of gold, or 21,241 billion barrels of oil.

Those are changes of -$184,306 billion, -3018 billion ounces of gold, or -60,575 billion barrels of oil. Alternately, that's a change of -8%, -57%, or -74% in value of American lives in US dollars, ounces of gold, or barrels of oil.

Value Destroyed by the Bush Administration in 5 Years?
Not quite priceless, but close enough. The value of 60,575 billion barrels of oil at the average price of oil over the first half of 2008?

$5,935,168,991,100,000 or $5.9 quadrillion

That is 1900 times the 2009 US Federal Budget.

There's more...

Musical Moments That Change Your Life—The Remix

The Days Of Vinyl and Roses...

As I fire the boilers up for what looks like a fearsome, fright-fraught, and in the case of John McCain's Arizona brother-in-less-than-ethical behavior—flat-out felonious week's worth of doings, I find myself using music to keep me from walking the streets looking for creeps to slap down. That's how silly the “Silly Season's” getting lately with talk of Manchurian Candidates and other candidates being deemed one minute as a GOP enabler, and the next as a bereted, leather-jacketed second coming of Bobby Seale and Fred Hampton.

Great Balls O' Stupid!

But music is a saving grace for me. It gets me through. Takes the edge off—and in a sensory way, simply transports me. My ears tune in closely and my brain itself opens up. I “hear” the music in an enjoyable as well as an analytical manner. My nervous system is primed to a high sensitivity. There are chills and shudders. The hair will stand on end on note trills, and certain bass lines sock you in the gut and waggle your pelvis against your will.

And oftentimes—the music will key in emotionally. It can support or provoke a moment. Our dear and talented littlest gator wrote about this beautifully about two weeks ago. It was a popular post and a thought-provoking one. From it, I got an e-mail from one of my oldest friends—an artist, teacher and writer who read the piece and got him to thinking about his musical moments.

And maaaaaaan, has he got some. As I've known him for over 25 years. I've been a witness to some of 'em—so I figured I'd share them with you, as he's just a damned fine writer himself, funny,and as much a music “head” as I am. You'll be hearing more from him in the future as he's also a wonderful military historian capable of tying in classic tales of Spanish armadas into modern-day doings. And be on the lookout for some special music posts I'm whipping up with the help of a few friends who boast impeccable Rock, Pop and Funk chops. Trust me...you'll love it!

Thus without any further ado, my pal—who shall go by the moniker “The King Of Pain” for now, and his musical moments, followed by my own “Ten”.

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Music.

When it’s good, music can be uplifting. Energizing. Unforgettable. Timeless.

And when it’s REALLY good, music can inspire a timid soul to plan, and do, magnificent feats, to express feelings of great joy, or to be a balm in time of sorrow. Oh yes, that is the power that music, good, nitty-gritty, down-to-the-bone, make you wanna slap your mama music has, regardless of genre, or race or culture of it’s creator. GOOD music is all that, and more:

It can be Magical.

My best bud in the world's post prompted me to list the ten most magical memorable songs I know. Songs that, for whatever reason, have left their mark on my psyche. As an avid music man, this was no small task, and the list here is no way fully inclusive, but these ten are the first I always think about. And since this list involves going down “Memory Lane”, because I’ve been in enough trouble lately, the names of the innocent have been changed, but the songs remain the same.


10.) “Sweet Love”—Anita Baker, (1986)

From the dramatic and powerful first eight chords, you get the sense that something new was dawning. And when the instrumental intro subsides and Anita’s dusky alto takes over, the new sound is complete. A different strain of torch love song had been unleashed, one that would become a staple of—and one of the only actually enduring examples of what would soon be known as “Cool Jazz.” For me, this song also ushered in the dawn of a new and unfamiliar era for me personally: the Era of (finally!) Getting Laid.


9.) “Sideshow”—Blue Magic, (1974)

70’s R&B melancholy at its best. “Sideshow” always evokes a far more innocent time, of being in 5th Grade at PS 335 in Brooklyn, of a young, skinny lad with big glasses and bad teeth trying to dredge up the nerve to ask the school Goddess, one *Felicia Packer, to be his girl, hanging around her block on Park Place and Utica Ave. for hours every Saturday, hoping to get a glimpse of her magnificence (today, this would be known...as stalking). “Sideshow”, along with The Stylistics’ “You Make Me Feel Brand New” was the soundtrack of that time, forever blaring from someone’s apartment or car radio as I maintained my weekly vigil. And though I did intercept her several times, I ultimately gave up the ghost, figuring a geek like me never would have a shot, only to realize twenty years later, when events would play back in my mind, I belatedly, and heartbreakingly realize that every time I did Intercept The Goddess, she was always, ALWAYS happy to see me.

Idiot.


8.) Pop Pop Pop (Goes My Mind)—Levert (1986)

You fucked up. Be a man. Admit it. You. Fucked. Up. You had a diamond, and you traded her in for rusty, shedding Brillo pads. Could’ve had a Lexus, but you went for the Le Car instead. Friends call me “The King of Pain”, due to all the sad love stories that I’ve had the misfortune to live. But not all of them are those that cast myself as the victim of a wily woman. No…some are self-inflicted pain, the result of bad choices (or in some cases, no choices made at all). “Pop Pop Pop” is a signature song for those times that I blew it, when I gummed up the works, when I did bad. A haunting song coolly delivered by the late, great Gerald Levert and company, it’s what I always played when all I could do was mope and wallow in self-pity. Good times. Gooooooooood times.


7.) “If Loving You is Wrong, (I Don’t Want to Be Right)—Luther Ingram (1972)

And speaking of haunting, this tune is as good as it gets. As a child I loved this song (I was eight when it came out). But it wasn’t until I became an adult —a married adult, that this song’s power and pain was fully understood. And what pain there is!

“Am I wrong to fall, so deeply in love with you?
Knowing I got a wife and two little children depending on me too.
And am I wrong to hunger for the gentleness of your touch,
Knowing I got someone else at home who need me just as much.”

“OOOOHHHH!!!! ” As Dr. Smith (from Lost in Space) would say— “The pain, the PAIN!” ”

What grabs me about this song is its simplicity in lyrics. It goes right to the point, without trying to be clever or cute. It’s raw, it aches, and Mr. Ingram (who wrote the song) delivers with a smoky, down-home chit'lin-style that tells me this ain’t no make believe shit; this is the real deal, this motherfucker lived this mess, and he is oh-so-torn. And it's made even more evident to me as a married man who has felt…well…um...let’s just move on, shall we?


6.) “Sucker MCs” (Krush Groove One)—Run-DMC (1983)

Much acclaim has been heaped upon Sugarhill Gang’s “Rapper’s Delight” as the first mainstream rap record, and “The Message” by Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five for giving rap a social conscience, and it is all deserved. But in my estimation, there is a third nascent rap song that completes the holy trinity, and that is Run-DMC's “Sucker MCs”. After “The Message, which came out in ’82, rap really was just meandering along, still a novelty waiting to expand its beachhead. Then came the Spring of ’83 when “Sucker MCs” burst upon a sleeping population, bringing the oomph back in to the Hip-Hop Nation. Simple and sparse, with only an addictive, repetitive percussion beat mixed with mad skill by the late Jam Master Jay, Sucker MCs harkens back to a time when you could actually play a rap song that wasn’t angry, or filled with hate, self-hate, misogyny or abounding with words that sane parents try desperately to shield their little ones from. It’s a flat-out fun record, with a funky little beat that 25 years later, is still a crowd pleaser in the clubs.


5.) “I Feel Good All Over”—Stephanie Mills (1987)

Are you into doing acts of evil? Not EVIL on the scale of Hitler, Stalin, Dahmer, or bin Laden, but rather, lower-case evil, Reggie Miller giggling and throwing up “dagger” three-pointers in the final seconds sort of wickedness? Then play this song, or if you’re at a party that I’m present for, get the DJ to play this song. For then you will see a man, a steady, secure, confident man be reduced to a glob of goo—struck catatonic by the first five bars of this love anthem. It never fails; that is always the reaction I have when I hear this song. I could have Beyonce sitting on my lap, with Gabrielle Union caressing my shoulders while Catherine Zeta-Jones is pleading with me to free her from the hell that is her craggy grandfather of a husband, and it would still be the same; instant transportation to a time gone by, when I still had “The One That Got Away”, in my grasp. The One with whom I shared the most glorious kiss, during an August sunset, in the life-guard tower at Coney Island, as this song played softly in the background, echoing from the lit-up amusement park behind us. I hear this song and I become a glassy-eyed mute, an arrow shot through my heart, because through my stupidity, that magical time ended far too soon (cue that damn “Pop Pop Pop Goes My Mind”). So go ahead, you evil little bitches, do the deed—play that song. I’ve long accepted it’s the penance I must pay for being a greedy bastard, for trying to make “The Seinfeld Switch” when I should have loved the one I was with.

Kleenex, please.

4.) “Tempted”—Squeeze (1981)

In December,1981, as a college freshman, me and my buddies went to a college party at F.I.T.—The Fashion Institute of Technology. This was still the time period when I was painfully shy, and probably only the third real party I'd ever ventured out to. Got to the party in the cleared out, darkened Student Lounge, and it was jumping, filled with hot babes of every stripe. Like barracudas sweeping through a school of tuna, my boys went to work, scoring dance, after dance, after dance. At first I held back, unsteady, unsure. But then after awhile, I reasoned, “What’s the problem? You’re handsome, looking sharp in your black slacks, black turtleneck and beige blazer, how hard could it be to ask a girl to dance?” And so I entered the fray. Asked a girl for a dance. She said “No”. Asked another. Again, “No”. Tried again.

And again.
And again.
And again.
And again.

By the seventh time—I was shot down in flames. I finally raised the white flag, and as the party kicked into high gear, I sauntered off to the TV room, my ego shattered, and head hung low. There I stayed for the rest of the party, looking at something called Cable TV, that had some program called MTV that was showing something called music videos. One of the songs played was “Tempted” by the British pop group Squeeze. A song about being tempted by the fruit of another, it instantly became my default song for every time I was tempted to give up in my pursuit of the “Fairer Sex”. Later, when I’d meet similar bad nights at the clubs or a horrible date, I’d loop this song, playing it over and over and over again, much like my rejections that cold December night in ’81. And I still love the song.

“King of Pain”...that's me.

3.) Red Light Special—TLC (1994)

In the waning days of my bachelor life (July ,1996) I found myself at a Manhattan club. There that night was a beautiful young lady whose name is lost to me in the mists of time, but not the image of her beauty. Model tall, with shapely long legs and the look and build of Garcelle Beauvais, the girl was but a casual acquaintance; someone I’d love to target, but she was a bit young, (maybe ten years my junior) and a tad too beautiful and popular with the fellas who were hawking her like mad that night. So I harbored no illusions. Well this night, as the joint was about to close down, I asked her for a Last Dance. She accepted and we danced thru a couple of songs. Then “Red Light Special” came on. Seeing it was a slow jam, I was ready to back off. To my surprise, however, “Garcelle” drew close to me and we started to dance. Really close. And in my head, cheering erupted, slowly at first but gaining in strength the longer the song blared thru the emptying club, and the closer that sweet, lean body was up on mine. Oh, shit! Could it be? Am I on the verge of a miracle? I wondered. As T-Boz crooned her tune, I switched gears, from passive to aggressive. I said something about “Garcelle” being beautiful. She buried her head in my chest. I looked over towards my wingman, LM who stared at me with wide-eyed wonder. Getting bolder, I tossed another line as we slowly danced in sync. No response. Launched another get over-line salvo. No response. I reared back a little to check on my silent, clinging partner, and in doing so, I got a whiff of reality.

The girl was drunk. Damn near out cold on her feet. And as a result, she had fallen asleep in my arms. That’s why she was all up on me—I'd been practically holding her body upright. The cheers quickly turned to groans, and as “Red Light Special” ended, I had the task of trying to wake my dance partner up, bitter that my dream had already ended. As usual.

2) “Over Like a Fat Rat”—Fonda Rae (1982)

Of all the songs on this list, this is the only one I don’t have great affection for. Yet it makes this list solely on the strength of something that happened that some folks believe I made up, but alas, it did happen.

Saturday, May 7th 1988, I was at a graduation party of an acquaintance up in the Boogie Down Bronx. I'd just broken up with “I Feel Good All Over” girl, and was out looking...for a replacement. Shallow? Yes…but I was young. At this party were three prospects, one of whom I’d met sometime before.

The party…was as we said then, wack,, and the three young ladies were bored. I suggested that we’d go to my crib to get some up-to-date records to liven the party up. The three agreed, and we drove to my apartment in the Murphy Houses off Crotona to grab some albums.

When we got there, the three were amazed at my album collection, which numbered over 1,000 discs at that time. So much in fact, that they seemed to not want to leave, but rather—stay at my pad. “How long can we stay?”, asked the cutest of the three.

“As long as you like.”, was my reply, and the three girls shrieked in delight.

So as they giddily became familiar with my record collection, I was in the kitchen making some snacks, trying to decide which of the three I was going to concentrate my efforts on. It was there, in the kitchen, where I heard it; a slight shuffling, crinkling noise, behind the refrigerator. Thought I was hearing things, but a minute later, heard the same noise again, and my heart froze, because I knew exactly what that rustling noise signaled.

A mouse
.
No Lord, not here not now! I remembered praying, already knowing the answer. My crib had regular flare-ups regarding mice infestations, and that night one decided to make a visit. But I didn’t have time to combat the bastard, I had guests to entertain; three seriously sweet female guests whom I was trying to impress. All I could hope was that “Mickey” would stay his ass in the kitchen, while action unfolded in the living room. Or perhaps …beyond?

With snacks in hand I gamely returned to the living room where the girls were playing jams by Salt & Pepa, Eric B, and Sybil, laughing and dancing and swapping club stories. I sat on the couch, trying to relax, but my ears were cocked, waiting to hear that noise again. The cutest girl then went to my pile of records and picked out, you guessed it, the NY club classic, “Over Like a Fat Rat”. Excitedly she put the needle to the record, telling us how she loved this song—a thumpy, bass-heavy, ass-shaker of a jam.

And that’s, I swear on my mother’s ashes, when the trouble began.

Like a self-fulfilling prophecy, I heard the same rustling noise over “Fat Rat”, but the girls didn’t catch it. I started talking really loud, desperately trying to drown out the sound. Then I heard a squeak. And one of the girls heard that squeak above the record. I tried to play it off like “I ain’t heard nothing!” But then...the motherfucker did it again, this time letting out a big squeak.

“Was that a mouse?”

As if to answer the girl’s question, there was a sudden flash of grey lightning, darting quickly from behind the sofa to behind the piano. And all three girls saw it.

“EEEEE! A MOUSE!!”
“A MOUSE?! Oh, FUCK no! FUCK no!”
“SHIT! A MOUSE!! I’M GETTING THE FUCK OUT OF HERE!!”

And in a matter of seconds, as Fonda Rae was still singing about getting over like a fat rat—all three honies grabbed their jackets and cleared out of my crib with the quickness, leaving me with Fonda, and that mother-fucking, cock-blocking rodent.

It would be another TWENTY-EIGHT MONTHS (!) before I came CLOSE to getting some like I might’ve been close that night.

And in twenty years I’ve never played this song again. Ever.

1.) “We Must Be In Love” (The Wedding Song) —Pure Soul (1996)

In my opinion, one of the best wedding songs of all time, and to this day I am surprised this was not a bigger hit. Beautifully sung by women (and not little girly-girls) singers that could give a vintage EnVogue a run for their money, “We Must Be In Love” was me and my bride, “L.A.'s” first dance at our wedding reception nigh ten years ago, which more than made up for all the suffering and angst I went thru during my single days. If you don’t know this song, do yourself a favor and download it. Maybe it’ll be magic for you as well.

Peace.

From the King of Pain.

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Now, here are mine—pulled from the comments in TLG's original post, but here now to show some counter-balance and to give you a bit of insight into li'l ol' me.

My ten (LM's) moments:

1.) Hearing Art Blakey & The Jazz Messengers “Moanin” at my dad's friend Lewis' home in Englewood, New Jersey. Lewis had a full-blown, high-end stereophile room in his basement. Big Quad channel stereo. Everything was perfectly balanced. I could pick out where each instrument was and the quality was simply magical. That dark, paneled audio womb was amazing to hear music in, and hearing that majestic Jazz classic—those thundering drums, Bobby Timmons' loping piano, and Lee Morgan's serpentine horn just transported me. I fell in love with Jazz that day. Lewis would give us one more treat that day. We were in his yard and he pointed down the block and said the song was recorded about three blocks away at the legendary recording engineer Rudy Van Gelder's house. Wow.

2.) Marvin Gaye's “What's Happenin' Brother” from the “What's Goin' On” album. When we got our first stereo—a huge, Sylvania console, one of the first things we ever played on it was that album. I lay on the floor underneath the speakers, entranced by the panoramic sound and when “What's Happenin' Brother” came on, I swear I got high from it. It was the bass line. James Jamerson's bass line to be precise. I'd heard his bass before, but not stereo separated like that. It was an almost organic thing, pounding like a pulse—almost alive. I lay there, eyes closed as I repeated the song four times or so. It was THAT song that got me listening to music closely—picking out the individual sidemen and training my ear. But every time I hear that song to this very day—I trance out. I'm 8 years old again, life is simple, and music is...transformative.

3.) Stevie Wonder's “My Cherie Amour”. I had a crush on a waitress at my father's restaurant. Her name was Eleanora—she was a beautiful. mocha-colored sister whose skin fairly glowed and she had the most magnificent legs. One day, I watched her loading cups into the take-out dispenser for what seemed like several minutes when someone put Stevie Wonder's “My Cherie Amour” on the juke box. Time seemed to slow. The jangling guitars and singing strings, coupled with Stevie's longing voice while looking at the beautiful Eleanora melted my very soul. It didn't help that a huge blast of sunshine broke through the window and illuminated her in almost golden light. Shit. I'm choking up writing this. Every time I hear that song, I feel an impossibly sunny day and I'm drunk with thoughts of dewy-eyed love.

4.) It was an unnaturally warm Spring day in '73 when I sat in school in Harlem. The windows were open and Lenox Avenue was quiet that day. And then I could hear coming 'round the corner a sound. Drums first—“Bum-ba-ba-bum”, then a trilling vibraphone with a piano. It was the opening of The Spinners “Could It Be I'm Falling In Love”. It sounded so beautiful, so pristine. Then the strings washed in and I was lifted on a cloud of happy. That song is so damned perfect that I can't describe it. I was so taken away that I leaned over at my desk to look out the window for where it was coming from. It was a pimped-out, copper-colored Buick Riviera slowly tooling down Lenox Avenue, and as that monster slowed behind other cars that song blared from the 8-Track. So perfect. So beautiful. The teacher saw me distracted and gave me demerits. I didn't care. I still don't. That song's sound just moves me something fierce and always will.

5.) Jimi Hendrix' cover of and subsequent claiming of Dylan's “All Along The Watchtower”. I heard this loopy, psychedelic, apocalyptic number during a terrible hailstorm while I was still living in Harlem. I was six years old. The song was petrifying enough—Hendrix's trippy, keening guitar lines and slurry voice fed through the heavy reverb. But the fearsome sound and dystopian imagery will always be punctuated by a visual that took place at that moment. I was looking out the window during his backwards-sounding solo when a huge, bloody, dead pigeon plopped onto the sill in a thud of feathers and ice-ripped wounds. Yikes. That song still scares the living shit out of me, but I can't stop listening to it. It's a sense memory of my youth I'll never forget. It just has that cool, spooky “end of the world” vibe. Brrrrrrrr!


6.) “How Deep Is Your Love” by the Bee Gees. Say what you want about the Brothers Gibb, but those S.O.Bs can turn out a ear-sticking pop song like very few in the modern era. Tuneful, catchy stuff that you can't shake. In the three year span of '76 to '79, you could not avoid them. I was at a sweet sixteen party for a classmate and in attendance was the most beautiful girl in our grade-Ann Marie. A statuesque, doe-eyed, elegant girl with a huge mop of dark brown hair. She was smart, beautiful, classy and I think at least thirty boys in our class were in love with her. I was among them. We were friends Ann Marie and I, and as a bunch of us lingered about holding up the walls at the party, The D.J. put on “How Deep Is Your Love” and the floor cleared except for the longstanding, and just hooked-up couples. I saw Ann Marie standing there off to the side and I impulsively made my move. The assembled fellas saw me making my way towards her and mouths fell open. I was gonna get shot down. NOT. Ann Marie said yes. We clinched on the floor in a soulful slow-dance and that song was magical. The warm Fender Rhodes, languid bass, and trilling guitars swept me away. The lyrics took on meaning and the sighing vocals finished the job. I was in heaven. I swear, when I hear that song nowadays, I can still smell the “Charlie” perfume on Ann's neck and feel myself getting dizzy from our little circle of dirty dancing there on that living room floor. I close my eyes when I hear that song, the same way I closed my eyes while dancing with the impossibly perfect Ann Marie. Maaaaaaan....

7.) First Choice's “Doctor Love”. I was still a teenager but it was my first time at a big-time Disco. It was Studio 54—early summer of 1978. A bunch of us had gotten in and found ourselves nervously standing near the shiny bar under the balcony when the man at the wheels of steel—D.J. Nicky segued from “Don't Leave Me This Way” into “Doctor Love”, disco music's magnum opus. I'd heard the song before, but never in a “club” atmosphere with the huge speakers everywhere and with a chance to dance. The bass was blasting through my mid-section as Rochelle Fleming's singing swooped and dipped like a wild bird on the wing. And then, a beautiful girl spun before me, stopped and then cocked her head, asking me onto the floor. For the next six minutes we danced—a bit of the Hustle, The Spank and The Freak mixed in. I was...for those brief minutes, an adult. Out for a night on the town, dancing my ass off with grown-ups. I can still feel every spin, every shoulder-swagger. My hands about this woman's waist, trailing off to her back, the toe-steps and shimmies. It was my coming-out party hang-out wise and that amazing, propulsive jam is what I think of when partying comes to mind. Sung by the mother of all Disco Divas—the amazing Rochelle fleming, NO song moves my feet more than that one does.

8.) Elvis Costello & Burt Bacharach's Painted From Memory”. I was in the process of getting over my first post-divorce relationship's coming to an end, and I was an absolute mess. I couldn't think, I couldn't cope. My friend and trainer at my job's gym I guess had noticed my odd distance and depression and knew I needed a catharsis. I came out of the shower one day to find she'd left me a CD on my gym bag with the note “Just Listen”. So, as I left the gym (unable to find her), I headed home and put the CD in my Discman and listened to it. The whole thing was amazing, but that one song had me blinking back tears on the train. I couldn't blink them back any more, so I got off many stops before my intended one and walked home, with that song on repeat and tears flowing down. It is...one of the most heart-breaking songs about lost love you will ever hear. The combination of Bacharach's melody, and Costello's lyrics and gut-wrenching singing is like a punch in the chest. A real orchestra, swelling and receding along with my emotions—my God. By the time I got home I was exhausted. But it was a good exhaustion. I needed it. That song released me and I'll never forget it.

9.) “People Get Ready” by The Impressions. I've written on this song here before here. But I'll add this. It is one of my earliest audio memories, a song that sounded 400 years old—an ancient, soul-deep moan that I remember my dad giving me and my brothers haircuts to. I can still hear those ringing harmonies coming out of our cheap little phonograph as I watched the eerie ABC-Paramount label slowly spin around. I'm transported back to a simpler time. When I was a child, and while the world was tearing itself apart, a familiar song could actually soothe my soul. I still fall back on this tune for comfort today.

10.) Run-DMC's “Sucker MCs”. I heard this live at a block party three blocks off Hollis Avenue in front of St. Pascal's school on 109th Avenue in Hollis, Queens. Run, D and Jay freaked the assembled when they tore into this live version of their first hit for the locals. There were about a thousand people there with Jay's rig jacked into a light pole for juice. I'd listened to rap, mostly stuff done live at house parties by local would-be's, but when these three rocked the house that day it was amazing. Local boys made good, or, def as it were. The energy they radiated while performing was almost electric. People dancing, jumping, shouting and singing along as rap in essence was coming to life before the world's eyes, and we were there soaking it all in as guys from 'round the way were doing their part to spread it around. We knew something special was happening, but couldn't put our finger on just what—what we did know was that they were rockin' shit like we'd never seen it rocked before. The version they did was considerably extended and chock full of call-and-response stuff between the audience. We danced till our feet hurt and screamed along until we were hoarse. The late Jam Master Jay ended the jam with a two minute virtuoso bit of cutting and scratching. As an old rap song used to go, God damn that Dee Jay made my day!

Those are my ten. I could give you twenty, but those are the big ten that immediately come to mind here in LowerManhattaniteVille. :)

Heal up kiddies, get your music on—the “Silly Season” we're in the ever-lovin' middle of absolutely decrees it.

There's more...

My Roy Scheider Moment Of Zen

“We're gonna need a bigger boat.” Yeah.

With yesterday's passing of the actor Roy Scheider at the age of 75, I'm reminded of many of his classic celluloid moments. I first saw him in“The French Connection” as Gene Hackman's (“Popeye Doyle”) partner Buddy Russo. Scheider's craggy, east-coaster face was a constant companion of my days as a kid piled in the way-back of Daddy's big Briarwood station wagon as my family watched scads of movies at the local Whitestone and Sunrise Drive-Ins.

I saw him in “The Seven-Ups” on a double bill with “Enter The Dragon” in early '74, and freaked on the chase that peeled through my old Harlem neighborhood and ended on the Taconic Parkway with the car “he” was driving “Mansfield-ing” an eighteen-wheeler. Whoooooo-weeee!

Of course, there was his work in “Jaws” as Chief Brody, and yes...the “WTF?” line “You're gonna need a bigger boat” was indeed a Scheiderian ad-lib according to director Steven Spielberg. His cold-blooded turn in “Marathon Man” as Dustin Hoffman's CIA operative brother de-glamorized “spook” work while giving it a certain patina of rough, workaday cool.

It was his portrayal of the mercurial, hard-to-love/easy-to-adore Bob Fosse in 1979's “All That Jazz” that revealed a lot of his rarely-used-since-movie-stardom, Broadway-level chops. His shadings as “Joe Gideon” (Fosse's alter-ego) was a revelation to those who saw Scheider as an action-movie/thriller star. Vain, sensitive, evil and angelic-all balled up in one testosterone-fueled, dance-belted mess of a man. He was wonderful.

But my moment of Roy Scheider Zen occurred in 1995 in Hollywood. I was on the Universal Studios lot taking a meeting and eventually killing some time (trying to pop-start a studio golf cart) when me and my co-horts found ourselves outside Sound Stage 27 I believe it was, where they were shooting the NBC TV show “SeaQuest DSV” which starred Scheider.

Several cast members were evidently on a break outside the studio between scenes, tossing a football around. Roy Scheider was among them. Someone tossed the ball over Roy's reach and it bounded goofily near my feet.

I picked it up and looked at Brody/Russo/Fosse/Scheider and threw it back to him as best I could—which was a sad, wobbly wounded duck of a near-spiral.

Just ugly.

He caught it near his knees before it would have plopped weakly to the ground, and he clearly saw my look of utter embarrassment at the “toss”. I could catch and run with a football with anybody—but my spirals were just awful things.

Scheider cocked his head at me as if to say “C'mon”, and fired the ball back to me on a rope. A perfect, tight Staubach-like spiral. He was giving me a chance to make a better throw to atone for my previous abortion of a toss. So I stepped back, bounced on the balls of my feet, stepped into the throw and released straight over the shoulder and followed through smartly.

“Vwip!” A not-perfect , but pretty decent little spiral that sailed in at his left shoulder. He even “sold” the throw to his castmates with a little “Oomph!” sound and a shrug and move back on his heels for effect.

He simply said, “Yeah!”, and nodded at me and turned to throw more arcing beauties to his co-stars.

A lifetime of great performances and...a simple moment of face-saving do-over granted to a shmoe he didn't know from Adam.

Thanks for it all, Roy. As I nod and simply say “Yeah.”

And below is that amazing chase from Scheider's 73 hit, “The Seven-Ups”—the second-best car chase in movie history, behind McQueen's wild San Fran tear-assing in 1968's Bullitt and just in front of Hackman's NY street lunacy of “The French Connection”.

One word...Duck!

There's more...

Out From Under!

(Art from The Amazing Spider-Man #33—In my opinion, one of the greatest pieces of Comic-Book storytelling ever done: By Steve Ditko—February 1966)

“I Did It! I'm Free!”

It's been a few days folks—yes, I know. But I'm “back” as it were. The hellacious deadline I was under from last weekend (when I actually couldn't watch the Super Bowl as closely as I would have liked because of working on a SUNDAY NIGHT?) bled into the week with corrections, third and fourth passes and finally, my having to learn a new piece of software in like...oh, twelve hours just to complete the job.

Got through it. Like Spidey up above there, managing to push away those tons of steel imprisoning him. Whew!

But my being buried doesn't mean I couldn't see what was going on around me in this world.

And oh, my. What things went on!

SUPER TUESDAY AND THEN SOME:
Lord, what a day. This was an extremely rough one for me schedule -wise and I almost didn't get a chance to vote, but I did. And I found myself thunderstruck by what I was seeing. I ran an errand near the end of the day and found myself going through a few sections of Brooklyn tracking down a person and a photo I desperately needed in addition to trying to cast my vote. I couldn't help but notice something in my whole “Where's Waldo”-esque trip...

Ye olde County of Kings—Brooklyn, from the foot of Roebling's famous Bridge in Downtown, through Fort Greene, Bed Stuy, Park Slope, Crown and Prospect Heights was Barack Obama country. EVERYWHERE I looked—in nearly every barber shop, nail salon, cheesy deli, travel agency and restaurant there was posted an “Obama '08” sign.

Now, that may not seem like a big deal, but you've got to understand something about Brooklyn. Up until the late seventies, the borough was the fourth largest city in the country all by itself—behind the other four boroughs combined, Chicago and Los Angeles. The population is officially 2.1 million people, but if you count the folks the census missed, it's probably closer to 2.3-2.4 million. I couldn't find a Hillary Clinton for President sign anywhere. These areas—the densest populated sections of the borough had been ceded it seemed to Obama's campaign.

In the end, according to exit polling Clinton narrowly took Brooklyn by two percentage points—50% to 48%. A bit surprising to me considering how Obama's coverage seemed near complete there, but overall I guess it was kind of stunning. This is Senator Clinton's town and in its most populous area she barely managed to eke out a victory. She took the whole city fairly handily 57% to 40%, but quite honestly, she should have swamped him here. I fully expected the Dem machine here (as levered by Harlem Rep. Charlie Rangel and his fellow elected Clinton supporters) to pull out all the stops to ensure a resounding, home-court beat-down. I didn't figure him to be able to get 40% of the vote...but he did.

Conversely, in Illinois that day, his machine steamed, spun and mowed to a 66% to 33% victory—effectively doubling her vote total. Was it “the machine” or was it something else in addition to “the machine”?

A faint whiff of...momentum?

Let me keep it brutally real...I'm NOT a huge believer in the idea of “momentum” in political campaigns. Every state and it's cities within have their own sets of concerns, pet peeves and hot-button voting issues.

And yet...

Something seems to be in the air. Not a landslide or anything like that, but a detectable shift in the direction of the political wind. That shift is what closed the considerable gap in California from what was 30 points to the end result of 52% to 42%. In spite of an undeniable surge on Obama's behalf, (something noted by more than a few friends out there) the crazy polling, particular the now-supremely questionable Zogby having Obama ahead, it was almost impossible for him to take the state considering how far behind he was in early mail-in voting—and Clinton's surrogates fingers on the scale all over the place. Senators Feinstein and Boxer, L.A.'s Mayor Villaraigosa as well as much of the Congressional delegation were in the bag and flexed accordingly. But somehow, those early returns with Clinton at 59% and Obama at 32-33% wound up at night's end at a spread of just under 10 points—51% to 42%. A thoroughly convincing win, but taking into account what was at Senator Clinton's disposal influence-wise—not enough to snow Obama under with the 370-plus delegates at stake.

According to pundits, exit polls and my own contacts out there, the winning factor for Senator Clinton was the Latino vote. And if you've ever spent any length of time in Cali—particularly Southern California, you understand the potential numerical power of the Latino voting bloc. In the last 15 years their numbers have simply exploded...while the Black population...

...sits somewhere at around nine or ten percent.

I have gone upwards of 90 minutes in sections of L.A. without seeing more than two Black faces.

Why do I bring this up? Simply because of how L.A., Cali's most populous county's demographic breakdown indicates a potential issue for Obama's candidacy. The California Congressional delegation has smartly spent the last decade heavily courting the Latino populace and cultivating them as loyal voters. The outreach efforts of Boxer and Feinstein and the state's party, as well as the canny pushing of strong candidates like the Sanchez sisters (Rep. Loretta Sanchez thankfully kicked the batshit “B-1” Bob Dornan's racist ass into the Santa Ana River a few years back.) has been a boon to the group. And they very much identify with the administration under which that push really took place—the two Clinton terms in the 90's.

The problem here though is a multi-faceted one for Obama. As the Black population of L.A. is so small and the Latino one is virtually booming, there is a power dynamic at play there that has caused quite a schism between the two groups. A friend of my wife's who lives in San Diego has totally bought into the whole GOP anti-immigration shpiel, and since being laid off from her job now routinely e-mails my wife the most scurrilous, Malkinesque anti-Latino tracts you've ever seen. The whole “they're taking all of our jobs, wrecking our schools, opening too many 'El Pollo Locos' in Silverlake” shpiel. It's another version of Miami's Cuban/African American hate-fest come to life. More than a few Black folks in Cali see the ascendant Latin power as a threat and have gone xenophobic as a defense mechanism. Said ascendant Latin population rightfully sees a chance to amass power and are naturally identifying with “the power structure” the African Americans never quite accessed.

My buddy and writing partner “M” who lives out in Sherman Oaks, an L.A. suburb noted to me earlier in the week the Obama surge he was sensing, but also the wariness the two groups—Blacks and Latinos were palpably eyeing each other with.

“It ain't like it is back there (meaning NY).”, “M” said. “Puerto Ricans and Dominicans may not love us in New York, and we've got our issues with them too, but we actually have to live together, work together, and travel together every day. Out here, everybody's so scattered. Black people are sprinkled here and there, and Latin folks are where they are. No solidarity. No kinship. And we're at each other's throats for a piece of the pie.”

That snapshot is a panorama of what the West looks like—New Mexico, Arizona and Texas. All of them saw Latin muscle bulk up during the Clinton years and identify that success with Bill and Hillary Clinton—thus the longstanding allegiance. Obama's managed to peel away some of the younger segment as they're not as conscious of and didn't benefit as directly from the Clinton years.

The East coast—outside of the freaky geo-political stew that is South Florida is a different story. In the heaviest concentrated cities, the Black and Latin populations intermingle with great regularity. There's a greater shared experience and a tendency to in spite of base cultural differences get behind candidates of color. But those cities are not the coming powers electorally for Latinos.

That would be the West.

And the West is Hillary Clinton's firewall against the seeming Obama “wildfiire”.

I didn't think he'd take Maine yesterday. I guessed he'd lose by about five to seven percentage points, taking Mainers bucking “trends” when going to the ballot. I was frankly, stunned. Caucus or no, I assumed they'd buck the tide and re-center things. And I—and not just I—was taken aback by that.

Something's up kiddies.

And what with the Clinton campaign's mounting troubles—money woes, and the internal scrapping that led to to the personnel shuffling (lateral moves, firings...call it what you will) this weekend, it doesn't take a genius to see what it is that's up. Ain't a damn thang over, but...but...

Well, I'll let a politically-connected friend from Harlem say it:

“Yeah, the Clinton campaign is pissed. But it's not on the racial tip as far as I can tell. They're pissed, and their people who are backin' em' behind the scenes are pissed because Obama's already hurt them badly. He's forcing their hand in ways they weren't ready for. He's the guy you remember out there on the stump. You can't follow him. It's like goin' on after James at The Apollo. He's raised the bar so high as far as moving the crowd that he's forced his way into a real power position at the convention and afterward. If they diss him should they get the nom, and he decides to play it cool and dial his vocal support back to say...a six instead of a ten, they. Are. Fucked. He may have made himself indispensable. But of course, if he really does sandbag her should things not go his way, he could fuck himself with the party—them thinking he's selfish and not looking at the big picture. It's strange how he's impacted things. He's clearly the poster-child for the next generation of the party. And the real shit-kicker is...the money. The fucking money. The Clinton campaign is spending money they had NO INTENTION OF EVER SPENDING because everything was supposed to be sewn up on the February 5th at the latest. Nobody had any reliable polls for Maine because Maine wasn't even supposed to matter. Now look! Money's tight, there's backbiting on the campaign bus? We're actually talking about brokered conventions and super-delegates—which nobody's ever said “boo” about. Shit. It is on. All because Alma's (Charlie Rangel's wife) dude's on fire. The roof! The roof! The roof's on fire...”

Hot stuff, indeed.


“SHUSTERING” OFF HIS MOUTH:

On the David Shuster/MSNBC/“Pimpin' Ain't Easy” flap. I have defended and cheered on David Shuster here at GNB in the past, particularly over his tough, combative bent when confronted with freeper spin. His takedown of the sappy wingnut Marsha Blackburn over her surge stance and brain-atrophying stupidity was delicious. When her blogospheric supporters tried to smack him down for it on a technicality, he apologized, only to in the end be proven right in what he said.

But his inane comment about Chelsea Clinton being “pimped out” was just sillyfuck verbal diarrhea that he should have been sanctioned for. Plain and simple. One of the failings of modern journalism is the loss of discerning command of the language. Time was, folks toiled over typewriters, chewing over every word they chose to use. Those days are gone with the near instantaneous nature of the news cycle and the clawing desire of today's practitioners to attain mega-viewer and mega-buck stardom. Shuster however works at MSNBC, where in spite of Keith Olbermann's being the star player, the idiotic, sexually hung-up Chris Matthews is the loudest bench jockey on the team. He's followed by the soon-to-be gone, prettily-coiffed, and equally sexist dolt Tucker Carlson.

Plus, remember that this was also Imus' network and the likes of Matthews, Brokaw and Russert were all upset with his dismissal. For all their anti-Foxishness, there is a nasty old-boy's vibe in the air there—no doubt. And in the atmosphere of all that sticky testosterone and competitiveness, (with the on-air slot situation being in flux) Shuster I think played to the cheap seats, popping off without thinking fully about the measure of his words while consciously trying to be pithy and brash.

He fucked up.

And fucked up by touching the third rail that is rough talk about Chelsea Clinton. I'm not down with the untouchability of candidate's “children” after they are grown adults and on the trail for Mom and Dad. I'm talking about Chelsea Clinton's being the butt of jokes and hard talk since she was an innocent adolescent. Limbaugh savaged her on-air and the thorazine-needing McCain did so without prompting years ago as well. Hubris cited it here a couple of days ago, and the irony of that is that McCain's own adopted daughter was made the butt of scurrilous attack by political opponents a mere eight years ago. Shuster's playing fast and loose at the mouth with someone whose been taken advantage of before like that was a dumb move.

And as Sen. Clinton's been trashed there by the more-prominent Matthews and Carlson every day in ugly sexist ways and called on it, when the less-prominent (and thus, more vulnerable) Shuster line-stepped and her people squawked—loudly, something had to give. Not only was he wrong in throwing around rough language at a sensitized target, but he exposed the network to criticism in a way that gave them an out to punish someone other than their stars. So he was suspended. He should have been for an idiotic utterance. It was Newt Gingrich who during a bruising battle with Bill Clinton (which he was losing) said to his discombobulated GOP compatriots “Never give Clinton the chance to look like a victim...he'll beat you every time.”

Gingrich's warning to his colleagues holds true in this instance. The Clinton team beat MSNBC silly—to the point where in addition to sidelining Shuster, they ran an unscheduled “Headliners and Legends” bio on Hillary Clinton several times in the following days as obvious penance for the net's misdeeds against her.

Shuster deserved a strong reprimand. He deserves a suspension. But he ain't the only one. He's paying for Matthews' and Carlson's sins in addition to his own—and they've done far worse for far longer. So a little perspective is in order. I don't think he was calling Chelsea Clinton a “whore” or Senator Clinton a “pimp”. But it's such a loaded word directed at someone whose already been so harshly and unfairly characterized in the past that it was never going to go well.

It would do my heart proud to see Carlson's twisted “Hillary's gonna castrate me”, and Matthews' every-two-days sexistly stupid statements be held to the same level of scrutiny and punished just as harshly as Shuster's ill-directed and unfortunate blabbing...but somehow, I doubt it.

And with that my friends, your regular musings from Your Friendly Neighborhood LowerManhattanite now resume.

NOTE: Nothing in this post should be construed as an endorsement of either Democratic candidate for president. It is an article with facts and opinions about politics. I have not made up my mind, and GNB is not endorsing any candidate until there is a clear nominee. I intend to add this to all my political posts from now till we have a nominee.

There's more...

Swinging Me, Soothing Me, Saving Me

Music Break, Ya'll...'Cause I (And We) Really Need One...

It has been one of those weeks for me.

A week from hell.

Where the devil's hounds tear at your ass with acid-dripping fangs.

A week where the crummy events act like a blend of molasses and setting epoxy—slowing things down to an awful, painful crawl.

A week so bad, you'd give a month off your life if you could avoid its gut-churning drama.

It has been that kind of week, ladies and gentlemen. Full of reverses and head-spinning, not good-in-any-way surprises. Personal and professional. A hob-nail-booted “nad”-kick for seven...straight...days.

It darkened my mood, and laid me low. It limited my posting.

But I'm back. I. Am. Back. Thanks in no small part to my family, and my friends here and other places...and believe it or not, to the soothing, healing power of music. Thank God for music!

During my darkest moments in this week, I found myself sitting at work one night at an ungodly hour, dealing with the hell that was there and steeling myself for the trip home, where more mirth and merriment awaited. The Mac was running through iTunes on shuffle, and a song came on that just stopped me in my tracks after a few seconds in. It was The Impressions' “Keep On Pushin”. That spring-woung guitar-lick, the rolling, sisyphean bass line, the cajoling background harmony chorus, and of course...the imploring lead vocal of one Curtis Mayfield, made me stop what I was doing right then and there, and just...“breathe”, as Doc Wendel (Thank you. Jesse) says.

I couldn't shake that song. Something in it just got to me. So, I quickly whipped out the iPod, created a new playlist called “Curtis”, and filled it with about fifteen classic Curtis Mayfield penned jams from my iTunes library (the job library being about 33 GBs) to listen to on the way home. I figured I'd walk much of the distance, something I do when I need to clear my head of the fog that clouds it from time to time, and I saved the “Curtis” playlist for the part of the walk that would take me over the Brooklyn Bridge—having listened to more uptempo stuff in my walk through Lower Manhattan's bustling streets. And it was about 150 feet onto the bridge's pedestrian walkway when I tapped the click-wheel for Curtis's music...and his “It's All Right” came up first.

Now, music's a funny thing. There's something about the sound of particular songs, or the way they come across where they'll just sort of shake you. Maybe it was the song's walking bass line matching to my walking rhythm, and its old-school “work song” propulsion in the beat...but something...something was happening to me. I could feel that hint of a tingle—that thing my father called “Soul Bumps”, when a song or a singer connects with what you're feeling in a song and affects you physically. I shook my head and smiled a little—for the first time in five days—as I plodded on.

“Man...that was a great song.”, I mused to myself as I looked over my shoulder at the twinkling lights of Manhattan falling away behind me. Nosing out over the end of Chinatown below, the breeze off the East River calmed me even more, as the “Curtis” list played on and into me.

Into me.

I don't know just what happened that night as I crossed the bridge, but time seemed to slow down as the music played on. Gladys Knight's ethereal version of Curtis's “The Makings Of You” warmed my heart. “Keep On Pushing” played again, and I loped forward hard—and rhythmically as it throbbed along.

His driving anthem from '68, “We're A Winner” came up in the mix, and I found myself looking heavenward as just a bit of what felt like sea-spray blew past. I blinked twice, and my eyes watered as the song's joyous “C'mon...you can do it!” vibe washed over me there. I stopped mid-span at the first main tower and stood there looking back over the southern end of Manhattan, as that beat—that refrain— echoed in my head as my fist pounded out the beat there on the handrail:

“We're a winner,
And never let anybody say,
Why you can't make it,
'Cause a feeble mind's in your way.

No more tears do we cry,
And we have finally dried our eyes,
And we're movin' on up (Movin' on up!)
Lord have mercy, we're movin' on up”

And then...then? “People get Ready” came in next, like a rising tide in the headphones. I let it wrap around me, envelop me. Bells...that plaintive guitar...the haunting, moaning backing vocals, a bass line keyed to the heartbeat...and finally, Curtis's soul-deep, heart-rending lead vocal:

“People get ready,
There's a train a' comin'.
You don't need no baggage.
You just get on board.
All you need is faith,
To hear the diesels hummin'.
Don't need no ticket,
You just thank the Lord.”

I lost it...right there —the way I'm pretty much losing it right now as I type the lyrics and words following it. The song crept into my ears, down my back, and radiated with a tingle. My face stung as my eyes watered freely then, and I felt a wave of warmth and chill roll from the base of my neck, over my head and into my face. I shook my head and found my way to a bench there on the walkway...and sat...listening, as the tears just flowed. I just let my head hang down...and released.

I utterly released.

As the song wound out, I finally looked up into the sky at a luminous, almost full moon. And for the first time in five days felt good about something. I was actually smiling and taking in the night air, the breeze and smell of the river mist. It felt like I'd just shucked off about ten soaking wet blankets of bad juju and re-awakened my senses somehow. I stood up. I felt lighter. I tipped my head from side to side, stretching my neck, and shook my arms out a little. I punched up Curtis's “Move On Up” and damn near bounded down the second half of the bridge walkway—and a couple of times when I was alone, breaking into a near skip/jog as the horns blared and his voice cajoled, “Move On Up!”

What the hell had happened to me?

Art had happened...that's what.

Art at its best is a creation designed to stimulate the senses, to make one feel, and empathize. It moves one, shakes one, inspires one. It can reach from a canvas, or a turn of a dancer's hand, or pitch of a singer's note—into your very mind...and your heart, and sway you, or even save you.

And that's what happened to me on the bridge on Tuesday night. “Art” happened, and I guess...it saved me from crushing despair. And it was the late Curtis Mayfield's artistry that specifically got me through that particularly dark time. You see, I'd been listening to music all throughout hell's rising up to singe my brows and blind my eyes, but nobody's music connected for me the way that Curtis Mayfield's music did in those days. I've had Curtis on pretty much non-stop since that day, and he has been an absolute balm to my soul, and I have asked myself “Why is that?” repeatedly since I stumbled across his music's healing power.

It didn't take too long to answer once I looked at the songs I was listening to and thought a bit about the man himself.

The Playlist.

The Music.

The Healing.

Curtis Mayfield if you aren't familiar with him, was perhaps the most versatile, generous, and heartfelt singer/songwriter of the era in Soul music spanning two-plus decades—from the late fifties to the early eighties. He began in Doo-Wop, pioneered Soul (particularly Chicago Soul), and helped create Funk. Additionally, he was THE MUSICAL VOICE of the Civil Rights Era, moreso than Sly, or the stable of Motown stars or anyone else. You see, Mayfield was the most in touch with “the soul” of any of the artist/writers of the era. His songs were simple, yet infectiously musical. With his plaintive strumming, (He tuned his guitar to the black keys on the piano—an oddish, F-sharp tuning; F#, A#, C#, F#, A#, F# that he'd never stray from) he seemingly lived out the character from his Impressions hit “Minstrel and Queen”—that of an ebony troubadour. Curtis was the brotha you sang along with as he played his big guitar 'round the campfire, at the college building takeover, or in a holding cell with you and fifty other freedom riders. He didn't stomp, or swagger...he just made music—incredibly heartfelt, thoughtful music.

He was not a panther-esque, powerful presence like Marvin Gaye, nor was he a feral, explosive Soul beast like James Brown, or the lithe, lissome gazelle like Smokey Robinson was at the pen or at the mic. Curtis was for all intents and purposes, Soul's cuddly and wise Koala Bear, even in his unassuming look. But it was unwise to let his quiet mien fool you, for behind that quietude was a fierce, and caring heart. He was the genre's true humanist, whose range went from the one-to-one, “I truly love you, woman” level, to an all-of-humanity encompassing embrace—sometimes within the same song. And yes, there was an unabashedly spiritual note throughout nearly all of his music. He could do more with NO mention of “God” or “Jesus” in his music then, than horror-shows like Donnie McClurkin and Kirk Franklin do in their seventy-times per song mentioned aural nightmares.

He was spiritual without being preachy. There is a difference. He never exhorted one to “come to Jesus”, or clunkily threw scripture about. What he did was constantly ask the listener to go within one's self and see what was there, and pull from deep-down in that soul, one's own salvation. The lyrics from his 1969 masterpiece “Choice of Colors” spoke volumes:

“If you had a choice of colors...
Which one would you choose my brothers?
If there was no day or night...
Which would you prefer to be right?
How long have you hated your white teacher?
Who told you, you love your black preacher?
Do you respect your brother's woman friend?
And share with black folks not of kin?
People must prove to the people,
A better day is coming for you and for me.
With just a little bit more education,
And love for our nation,
Would make a better society...”

Now...Curtis wrote that in '69...and hit on in those first lines, themes of racial equality, misplaced anger at those who've done nothing to you, misplaced trust in others because of dated, authoritarian ideals, respect for women, caring for those with less...and even the idea and power of true patriotism.

Bit more than just the old boog-a-loo, there.

And I think that's what shook me there on the Brooklyn Bridge Tuesday night. I could have listened to one of about 7,500 songs that night on my iPod. But that little sub-set of 18 or so tunes—many of them stealthy, inspirational “pop-pocket sermons” touched my heart when it was at a low point, and kind of lifted me back up. I wasn't gonna jump or anything like that, but despair was so in my bones that week, that night, that I can honestly paraphrase what Elton John sang 30 years ago and mean it— “Someone saved my life that night”. Saved it from spiraling deeper into the maw of desperation. Those liquid, guitar licks, hopeful words, and yes, that silken, soothing voice, a calming falsetto with a vocal “You're gonna be okay.” nod nestled in it somewhere. Exactly where, I couldn't tell you, but I seriously doubt that I'm the only one who's heard it and had it pull them from a pit of sorrow.

Maybe it was his Church upbringing. A child of Chicago, Mayfield grew up there steeped in the Church (his grandmother was a reverend) and mastered four instruments. (He wrote “the classic Gypsy Woman” when he was 14!) This NPR interview from 1993 with Mayfield sheds a lot of light on his background and influences. Everything from the Bible, to poet Paul Laurence Dunbar, to Sam Cooke and yes, even Dr. Seuss.(!) He joined a group called The Roosters while in High School with his friend and phenomenal vocalist and tunesmith in his own right, Jerry Butler. They would reach stardom under their new name—The Impressions, with the incandescent, and frankly sanctified hit “For Your Precious Love” in 1958—and once stardom hit, so did the pressures on the group from the label and outer forces. The fabulously talented Butler was the sought-after lead singer and would be broken out of the group where he would gain solo fame...and to show what a generous musician Mayfield was, he continued to write for him—an uncommon happening in the music industry, to say the least, but Curtis Mayfield was an uncommon musician. He reconstituted the group with himself as the lead voice, occasionally alternating with his fellow members of the now-trio—Sam Gooden and Fred Cash. And it was there, as the heart balance to Smokey Robinson's brain in Soul Music's songwriting/performer firmament where Curtis would soar to unbelievable heights of success. “Gypsy Woman”, “It's All Right”, “Minstrel & Queen”, “I'm So Proud”, “People Get Ready”, “Keep On Pushing”, “We're A Winner”, “Choice Of Colors”...the list goes on and on.

And beyond the songs just being tuneful, Mayfield manifested another rarified talent—namely the ability to compose timeless “anthems”. Singable, unshakeable, and perfectly pitched anthems that tuned directly into the heartbeat of the then-burgeoning Civil Rights Movement. The aforementioned “People Get Ready”, “Keep On Pushing”, “We're A Winner”, and “Choice Of Colors” were the perfect four seasons quartet of songs that scored the era. One of my earliest sense-memories as a child is of hearing and seeing that 7-inch single of ”People Get Ready” with that spooky ABC-Paramount logo spinning on our old brown-and-white Dansette record player as the haunting, well-of-the-soul sound poured out. I remember we had three copies of that single, as one was worn to bacon-sizzling background noise from overuse, a second one that was in decent condition with some pops, and one that only Mama and Daddy played when there was company over. They were in sleeves marked “Dead”, “Good” and “DO NOT TOUCH!”. This was the only record we had three copies of. Some we had two of—but this was the only triple-header, with good reason. From the time I was four until I was ten, I think I heard that song twice a week. Multiples were necessary, as it sound-tracked the entire late 1960's. Perhaps it was a “comfort memory” of the song that so moved me on the bridge? Nah. I remember hearing Sinatra's “It Was A Very Good Year” repeatedly for 2 years as a child (and somewhere in our attic, there's an old reel-to-reel of me and my brother singing it—as horribly as a four and five year old can, from 1968), and The Fifth Dimension's “Up, Up And Away” was a dizziness-inducing staple for the three years it spun on our turntable in heavy rotation. Those two are comfort menories...but they don't move me like “People Get Ready” still does. I remember assuming as a kid that the song was an ages-old Negro spiritual, as it had such a timeless, almost super-eternal quality to its sound. It implored you to listen, to revere its words, and it touched the heart it pretty much commanded you to place your hand over when you heard it. It still does.

But Curtis's music also did something else. As stated before, that quartet or socially-conscious songs—in addition to a slew of others, were the soundtrack of the Civil Rights Movement, but above and beyond merely rallying people to action with his songs, he also tunefully handled subjects NO ONE ELSE WOULD IN POP MUSIC-i.e. self-love in “We're A Winner”, self-hatred in “We, The People Who Are Darker Than Blue”, respect for women and challenging Black clergy in “Choice Of Colors”. Before Marvin's “What's Going On” and Sly's “Stand” and “There's A Riot Goin' On”, Mayfield was plumbing the depths of socially-conscious music and coming up with rare and perfect sonic gems.

He was also the most ego-free performer of his era. When his pal and group-mate Butler left the Impressions, Curtis continued to write and produce for him, and when Curtis himself went solo, he continued to write and produce for his old group. That artistic generosity extended to other performers, where he plied his trade crafting hits for them—particularly his fellow female stars. He would produce unique, woman-friendly chart toppers for three of the most distinctive and heralded female singers of the Rock and R&B era—Aretha Franklin, Gladys Knight & Mavis Staples. That humanistic sensitivity came through in the songs he would write for them with lyrics about “the joy of children laughing”, “the smell of a morning flower, as we pass away the hours”, and “so much hope for material things—are they only in my dreams?”

It's that kind of heart that got to me on the bridge—and that enabled him to write visually and emotionally evocative, music for not one classic movie soundtrack, but four classic movie soundtracks in the 70's: 1972's “Superfly” (Listen to the lyrics—he doesn't glorify the character's criminality. In fact, he keys in on his amorality.) 1974's “Claudine, 1975's “Let's Do It Again”, '1976's “Sparkle” and 1977's “Short Eyes”.

I know. I'm being super-effusive here. But after what his music did for me, I just had to dig around a bit to get at “why” it was so effective in its healing...and in so doing, I realized that this man is one of the most underrated musicians of the last fifty years. His music reached way down inside me and found that dim, little spark of hope and somehow re-kindled it into the burning flame that's getting me through this exceptionally tough time. So you know what? I'm sharing him with you all—because dammit, we all have those moments—those periods when all seems set against you. And when you find that wonderful, simple healing thing that pulls you from the abyss—actual art, doing what art is really supposed to do, well baby...that's something you trumpet.

Curtis unfortunately, isn't with us anymore. After a long career as a hitmaker, (Dig around for his amazing duet with Linda Clifford, “Between You Baby and Me” from 1980), he continued to perform live gigs after the market changed and record sales dropped off. Here in Brooklyn, there's a long-running series of free summer concerts at Wingate Field, featuring long-standing R&B giants. I've seen The Temptations, Parliament-Funkadelic and The O'Jays tear up the stage at the Wingate shows. Mayfield was due to perform at one such show in the muggy summer of 1990. The night of that concert, I stood in my kitchen in Park Slope and looked at the ugly, brownish-grey sky roiling from the window. I had planned to hop a train to see that concert, but begged off after seeing that foreboding sky, figuring they'd rain-date the show. The weather was gonna be too awful for Curtis, who I'd never seen live—to perform. And that night was horiffic weather-wise—40 and 50 m.p.h. gusts tore through Brooklyn with drenching, monsoon-like rains.

But they didn't call off the show, as I would sadly discover on the 11 O'clock news later that night. Curtis was in the process of plugging his butter-yellow Stratocaster into the amp onstage when a huge gust tore a part of the light rigging free and slammed it down onto his neck and back, breaking three vertebra and paralyzing the living legend from the neck down.

Curtis would hang on for nine more years...sadly never again plying those ininmitable liquid lines from his Strat, but still, after extensive therapy, recording again that heart-rending voice. Pleading for peace and understanding, love and redemption...till the very end in 1999.

It's a funny thing. I've long been a Curtis Mayfield fan, but it took that moment of epiphany on the bridge to really look closer at him and what he meant. That lack of ego on his part made his greatness, and power all too easy to take for granted. Not just by me, but the world at large. So, I spent a day or so just reading up on him on the web, and stumbled across great videos of him all over the place—here, here, here, and here for example. By all means, click and enjoy “The Gentle Genius”.

And...as a bit of therapy (for myself) and as a tribute to the man himself (Thank you again, Curtis!), here's a little music video I put together to familiarize you with the man's work if you're not up on it—or if you are hip to the monster Mayfield vibe, just to groove to and remind you how amazingly talented he was. Our beloved Steve often spoke of his love for classic R&B, and this little Curtis Mayfield music video compendium that follows shows you some of the reasons why at its best, the style is something to behold.

“I know we've all got problems.
That's why I'm here to say...
Keep peace with me, And I with you.
Let me love in my own way”

from “We, The People Who Are Darker Than Blue”—1970

Rock on, brother. Rock on...and thank you.

There's more...