IT ONLY TAKES ONE or, How a 12 Year Old Upstages the Memphis Media

Facebook is perhaps a better communicator of news than the media, especially the media in my current city of Memphis. The first time I heard about 12-year old Diedra Shores, a local teen, was through Facebook via a post by one of my friends.  At the time, Diedra was picked as one of the finalists for the Today Show’s Kid Reporter, a nation-wide contest.  Well, this morning, the energetic Ms. Shores won the contest and will be embarking upon her first news story very soon aboard a cruise ship.  How did I find out about it? Yep, through Facebook.

But this is not about Facebook so much as it is about how Diedra Shores has singlehandedly upstaged the Memphis media.  For many of you who may be reading this from other cities, let me give you an idea of how news stories run in the Bluff City.

Here’s a few examples of the headlines:

“Two men charged with armed robbery at local convenience store.”
“Three teens sought as suspects in death of local teen.”
“Woman killed during carjacking at traffic light.”
“Toddler left for dead in North Memphis apartment building.”

Get the picture? After I learned of Diedra’s soaring accomplishment, I did a quick search of local media websites:

9:15am: Scanned the website of the Commercial Appeal, Memphis’ joke of a newspaper.  Nothing on Diedra.

9:30am: Scanned the website of WREG, the local CBS affiliate; scrolled down to mid-way of the homepage and found one little link under the NBC Memphis heading.

9:35am: Scanned the website for WLMT/WPTY, the local ABC affiliate. Zilch on Diedra

9:40am: Scanned the website for WHBQ, the local Fox affiliate. Nada on Diedra.  Not surprised at all by that one.

9:43am: Scanned the website for WMC, the local NBC affiliate.  Surely, the local NBC affiliate is going to have something right?  After all, The Today Show is on the NBC network. Ok, there is something…but I had to scroll down and go past all of the bad news to see the video link on Diedra.

Thanks to the local media, a large swath of Memphians (and quite a few outsiders) believe that this city is one big cesspool of violence and poverty; even teens like Diedra are not immune to becoming the top story on one of these news programs. Guaranteed, if there was an incident that involved a teen doing something as small as raising their voice in the school cafeteria, it would be carried by all of the media affiliates in the city.  Furthermore, it could be presented as a story where the teen was being unruly towards another student or the teacher, when in actuality, the child could have been simply trying to get the attention of a friend. There have been instances where the Memphis media did not accurately check sources or facts regarding several new stories.  In addition, their rate of following up on news stories and doing in-depth reporting is atrocious.

Meanwhile, Diedra Shores becomes a winner of a national contest and it seems to have fallen on deaf ears of the so-called media personnel in the city. She didn’t win a ribbon in a local pie eating contest; she won a national contest as a Kid Reporter—that alone should have caused them to take notice and try to capitalize from it.  In an industry that’s struggling for ratings and eyeballs, they need all of the help they can get. Furthermore, if there is ever a city in need of a better image, it’s Memphis. Stories like this could be used as a part of an image building platform to improve the opinion of the city among its citizens first…then to the rest of the nation.

There’s so many angles that a good reporter could work with this story.  For instance, one could interview administrators at Memphis City Schools to get their reactions to Diedra’s accomplishment and how that could be leveraged into encouraging other students to strive for higher goals.  After all, Diedra’s school, Colonial Middle, is part of the public school system.  A good reporter could also seek out other students within the public school system who are achieving in spite of the system’s failing report card.  Through a well-researched report, a local news station could incorporate Diedra’s story and even allow her to be apart of the story as a co-reporter. That would be a great publicity boost for Memphis City Schools.  Those are just a few ideas that I’m tossing out there, in hopes that it would stir the creative juices of someone at one of these local news stations…or just somebody who cares enough.

Lastly, I find it quite interesting that Diedra wants a career in an industry that has a tendency to demonize people who look like her.  However, I can only pray that she will become the change agent as she is already on the path of being a trailblazer.  After all, it only takes one.

C/K

Reclaiming Betty Davis

My, how times have changed.

Back in the 70s,  it was still considered lewd and risque for a woman to be on stage in lingerie, fishnet stockings, and scowl while singing about ‘crawling to her man’ when he needed his ego lifted.  I suppose those still around with modest sensibilities must wear a constant frown at the likes of Beyonce, who is half-naked every time she steps on stage and actually wiggled on the floor during a performance.   But, the willingness to be scantily-clad is normal among so many women these days, not just the Pop Queens and R&B Princesses.  That’s their business.  I don’t have it in me to take on the sex kitten persona with this post, or, maybe I do….just from a different angle.

See, I got this thing about people who don’t fall into pre-determined categories.  Also, I love to ponder on the large-scale meanings of things and see if there’s a connection between them. Ya dig?  That’s why I’d rather play around with the badass-ness of Betty Davis.  It’s much more fun because this woman was letting it all hang out when it really wasn’t the norm to do so.

Now, in terms of sheer musical quality, Betty’s funky contributions were rather normal, after all, she used musicians that used to play for Sly and the Family Stone.  The gritty vocal delivery of female singers had already happened with the likes of Tina Turner, Janis Joplin, and Kate Copeland, so, nothing new there.  But,  Betty’s screeches, moans, and wailing separated her from other female vocalists for a couple of reasons.  For one, she opted to keep it raw, abandoning the trend of Disco that was sweeping up the market and she completely avoided diving into the sweet Soul movement.  Another reason and the most important one,  Betty dared to put female sexuality on blast in her records and stage performances.  As a matter of fact, the latter is why her performances were protested by religious groups (perhaps the same ones that despised the feminism movement) and radio stations shied away from playing her records, which eventually resulted in poor album sales–causing Betty to stop doing music and go into hiding.

As the former wife of jazz master, Miles Davis, Betty’s nasty gal image contrasted totally to her cute-faced, model girl looks, giving her that extra boost of eccentricity that raised a lot of eyebrows.  I can imagine it now.  They probably asked questions like, ‘Dang, how did someone as smooth as Miles get hooked up with such a racy woman?’  I suppose  Miles wondered that too because the couple divorced after a year of marriage.  The trumpeter would go on later to cite that Betty was just a little too wild for him. Of course, that pesky little rumor about her affair with Jimi Hendrix, whom she connected to Miles, may have had something to do with their split as well.  Betty completely denies the allegation.   According to sources though, she was the inspiration behind Miles’ experimental jazz masterpiece, Bitches Brew, so the union couldn’t have been that bad.

Fast forward to the 21st century,  Betty’s music is enjoying a resurgence, thanks to the indie label, Light in the Attic Records.  The label released her three albums, including the formerly unreleased third album (shown below) that’s considered her best work. Some thirty something years later, Betty seems to fits in well with today’s culture, perhaps so much so that there’s probably a few people who don’t get the big deal about her at all.

For the sake of the sisters, I’d like to reclaim Betty Davis and put her in the annals of history alongside Pam Grier and Tamara Dobson.  So, as we critique and have this discussion about the cultural and social persona of Black women, we can adequately assess that Betty Davis also did her part to ensure that minxes like Beyonce and company could comfortably exist in their sex appeal—now whether that’s good or bad is not the subject of this post.   It’s even safe to state that Betty Davis was the ‘Lil Kim’ of her day and we all know how the Notorious K.I.M. gets down.  Here’s the difference though:  Betty Davis, for the most part, was almost burned at the stake.  Lil’ Kim, on the other hand, had a college course named after her.  Talk about extremes.

Anyway, check out the bawdy Betty Davis courtesy of Youtube.  As you listen to the lyrics, bear in mind that this was 1975…and not 2009.

Yo, there’s really nothing new under the sun.

The Death of the Starving Artist

Wikipedia, the Super Site of Need to Know, defines the starving artist as someone who has given up the comfort and luxuries of material gain for the sake of their craft. The term has been around for ages, attaching itself to many of the world’s artistic geniuses.  Seemingly, it applied to painters and sculptors; individuals who needed to be free at all times because it is nearly impossible to put creative vision on a schedule.  I suppose it didn’t extend to writers, singers, and musicians because given the history of the art forms, many of these individuals were not always broke.

For instance, writers, at one point in time, were known as scribes.  In many cultures, scribes held rank with priests and other dignitaries, largely because reading and writing were regarded as privileges.  Their chief responsibilities included documenting historical events as well as preparing decrees and other royal ordinances.  Musicians and singers were also part of the royal court; on hand to perform during feasts and  ceremonies.  While I can’t quote a definite source, I strongly believe that painters were the original starving artists because they had to be commissioned by someone to do a special piece of art or had to await an opportunity to exhibit their works for sale, which were notoriously sparse.

Now, the starving artist label has expanded to include anyone who does anything with an artistic flair, especially if they live in the good ole United States; the capitalistic empire of this age.  Let’s face it, the only thing that creativity and capitalism have in common is that they both start with the letter ‘C’.  If it can’t be priced, manufactured, and marketed to the masses, then this economic system doesn’t want anything to do with it.  This is a country where platinum selling recording artists file for bankruptcy and/or have to face tax evasion charges.  Arts budgets are being slashed in every area where they can be found, especially in schools.  Apparently, some kook reasoned that one of the least effective ways to develop a society of well-rounded individuals is teaching the violin—but performance based testing is the ’sure-fire’ method of transforming your children into robots with pulses, my bad, ahem….’more competitive workers for the global economy’.  Who was that mastermind?

Oh.  Never mind.  I remember now.  As always, I digress.  I guess I have too much to say.

—-

Take a look at the picture to the right.  I’m certain that if I were to write for a living during these times, that would be my instrument; worn out, outdated, and counter productive.  Shhh! Don’t tell anybody, but I still hold down a 9 to 5.  To me, I’m in an adulterous union with Corporate America.  I’m cheating on my pen.  Blame it on my weakness; I actually like to eat…and don’t you think it would be rather hard to write in the dark or on some dimly lit street corner inside of a cardboard box? I do.  Of course, I realize that every writer’s game plan is to find a job  so they can remain focused on the art of writing.  Well, that would be great and perhaps I should get a few really great writing samples together and a contact list of editors at magazines and newspapers….oh wait, they’re going out of business.  Ok, let’s see.

I could write a banging, super sleek manuscript and shop it to major book publishers.  No. Wait.  What in the hell do they know about Black literature? Nah.  Oh! I got it! Since I have a business degree and corporate experience, why don’t I just start a company? Yes!!!! That’s it! I’ll start a company that will not only publish my books, but other people’s books too! With the help of the internet, it’s much easier to get a book published, reach my audience and sell my books.  After I decide the price of the book, I could even offer the books in various formats: audio, e-book, Kindle.  Through  the use of social media, I could start a Facebook fan page, start virtual reading groups and host special events to promote the books.   I can develop all kinds of strategies that will incorporate an integrated platform, using both traditional and non traditional media vehicles.  The case of the starving artist is solved.  At least, for me, it is.

As for others, that’s my word of encouragement.  We, as artistic professionals, live in an era where creativity and capitalism has to be introduced to each other.  You owe it to yourself as an artist to control your gift and to profit from it.  This means that you must be as much of a business person as an artist.  Modern technology has granted us more resources than previous generations of artists.   So, use them to your advantage.   Given the current state of the music industry, any artist that’s still shopping demos must have been asleep for the past few years.  I’m still waiting on this barrage of musical artists to jump start digital labels that will officially put big boys out of business.

I’m not saying anything new.  The purpose of this post is to simply exist in the internet stratosphere, hovering about aimlessly while some poor disgruntled artists are surfing the web, trying to get their minds off their hungry bellies and/or those  lame ass jobs where they are underpaid, underappreciated, and overworked.  Hey, even if they don’t feel like reading the whole thing, all they got to do is internalize the message above….and just keep it moving.

Even Happier to Be Nappy

Chris Rock’s Good Hair documentary was released nationwide this weekend.  So, if you haven’t seen it, make a point to do so.  On Saturday, I went solo to see the documentary, but upon entering the theater, I was among family. There were several Black women there with natural hair, of  course, and we seemed to have gravitated to each other; perhaps in an unconscious act of solidarity—we know we’re in the minority among Black women. 

Now, I will not go into details about the documentary because it is my desire that you flock to the theaters to see it for yourself, that is, if you haven’t seen it already.  But, I will divulge the thoughts and feelings that I experienced while viewing it.  First of all, it’s worth every dime of its money, mainly because it is funny and informative.  So, I laughed quite a few times at Rock’s infamous dry wit humor, while being enlightened about some things that I need to research further.  It spurned some ideas as well, but I won’t get into that.  In many ways, it also concerned and, to some degree, troubled me. 

I found myself wondering just how far have we come as a people. Why do we, Black women, go to such great lengths to alter our appearance under the guise of personal choice and supposedly to feel better about ourselves?  Have we become so jaded that we actually believe the hype of longer and straighter hair makes us more beautiful?  Apparently, we have…at least, according to Rock’s documentary.  The issues brought up in the documentary bears discussing at great length in your own neighborhoods and social groups.  I’m quite certain that Good Hair will convict a lot of Black women and make them think twice about something that they deemed as relatively insignificant—which is great!    

I thought about my own hair journey as I recall getting my first relaxer at the tender age of seven. My mother had the hardest time working with my hair because it was thick and ultra-curly.  To add, I was ‘tender-headed’, meaning that I didn’t want anyone to comb my hair because of the painstaking effort it took to detangle it.  So, my mother bounced me off to the house of a distant cousin who was starting her beauty salon the old-fashioned way—in her kitchen.  I kept getting my hair relaxed  and wearing various styles (none of them included weave) until I turned 30. During that time, I didn’t even question why I was getting my hair relaxed.  To me, it was just a normal activity for Black women—perhaps this thinking was embedded in me because I started getting a relaxer so young.  Meanwhile, I was developing into one of the most Afrocentric sistas you have ever seen—all while I was straightening my African crown with No-Lye relaxers. I was even pro-Black about that as the black owned Dudley’s relaxer was my creamy crack of choice.  Interesting, huh?       

Before I made the final decision to go natural, I had thought about it quite a few times, hesitating at every turn. I was unraveling all of the deeply rooted notions about Black beauty and acceptance.  How will I look?  Would men like me with my natural hair? Will I be able to get a job?  Did it even matter?  Of course, it did…but I went against the grain and decided to go natural anyway, prepared to deal with all of the consequences.  It’s been six years and counting…and the only regret I have is not doing it sooner.  Here’s what I’ve learned, you have to make people accept you for who you are….not for what they expect you to be.  In this day and age, companies have to adhere to their own bullshit about having a diverse workplace; so how I wear my hair is a non-entity, unless they want a lawsuit.  As for Black men, I cannot count how many times I’ve been asked if they can touch the ‘Fro. 

However, the reactions of other Black women has been the most startling observation.   I recall one woman assuming that I let my relaxer go because I was losing hair…and once I got enough ‘new growth’, I was going to get it relaxed again.   She kept saying, ‘Girl, when you get your new perm, it’s gonna be pretty!’.  Once I informed her that my natural hair is intentional, she seemed surprised.  Other Black women have made a point to compliment my hair; yet stated that they can’t wear their hair in its natural state because they don’t have ‘good hair’ like me but they got that ‘coarse, nappy hair that won’t do anything’.  Ummm, what?  That’s why it’s called ‘natural hair’!  Ok, I’ll stop here because I could go on and on…       

On a closing note, Good Hair forced me to think seriously about the degenerative effects of assimilation.  It’s always been my theory that we pushed aside much of ourselves in order to be accepted within the larger society.  This documentary serves as a great reference to prove my theory.  As I search for some way to end this post, I realize that I will have to take this issue up again and continue the discussion (so expect a few more posts on the subject). It’s not about hair so much as it is about the psychological, social and cultural associations that’s attached to it.  It’s deeper than personal choice, for the most part, so I strongly encourage those who want to write it off as minor to seriously consider that.  Bear in mind, Chris Rock’s premise for doing this documentary came by way of his young daughter who asked him why she did not have ‘good hair’. So, this is something that’s being transferred to our young daughters; continuing to perpetuate a harmful cycle of poor self-image.  I cannot become a staunch advocate against relaxers; especially since I used to be in the number of ‘permed up’ sistas, nevertheless, it is imperative that we teach ourselves and our children that we are fearfully and wonderfully made (Psalm 139:14).  Let’s, at least, kill this notion of ‘good hair’ and spending boatloads of money on somebody else’s hair for the sake of exoticism and having that ‘flip’ action.

At the conclusion of Good Hair, I talked briefly with some of the women in the audience, agreeing that this documentary was much needed (whether the concept was stolen or not) and we both shared our impressions of certain parts of it.  A couple of us even had the same reaction about the same parts.  So again, if you haven’t, get out to the theaters to see it and then let me know what you think.  As for me, I’ve given you a lengthy post about my thoughts, but overall, one thing’s for sure, as I left the theater, I was even happier to be nappy.    

Chandra Kamaria

 

‘Urban’ Fiction: We Don’t Need It, Do We?

As an avid reader and genuine lover of books, I really do not spend a lot of time  in bookstores.  Why?  Because brick and mortar establishments rarely carry the titles that I desire.  That’s understandable.  They only have a limited amount of shelf space per genre.   Given that fact, it often puzzles me how some selections have made it to the shelves while others are absent.  Recently, I was hanging out in one of my favorite bookstore chains, which will remain nameless, and decided to venture over to the African American fiction section.

Upon browsing, I became annoyed and dismayed; so much so that I had to call a friend and have her bear witness to the literary atrocity I saw on those shelves.   Many of the titles (and authors) escape me and for good reason–there’s no way that I would want to remember them.  All of these books fell in the trendy genre of ‘urban fiction’, which translates into ‘hot ghetto mess’ on paper.  What about the rich literary heritage of Black writers?  Where were those books?  Ah! One hardcover copy of ‘Invisible Man’ by Ralph Ellison sat on the top shelf, while all of the street culture lore remained at eye level.  By   training and profession, I’m a marketer so I understand shelf placement very well.  These tales from the ‘hood were readily available with multiple copies; on the other hand, Toni Morrison and Ralph Ellison were situated high enough so that a customer would have to want that book really bad to retrieve it.

Now, this bookstore is located in a predominately White, upper middle class neighborhood, but there are a few surrounding areas that consists mostly of middle class African American families, so apparently, the bookstore services those areas as well.  Nevertheless, the titles carried at the bookstore were audacious enough to pique my curiosity.  Who in the hell buys and reads those books?

Our children?  White children? If so, then that frightens me, whether it’s one or both groups.  Black youth who have taken up a love of reading should not be subjected to such material, unless they have been properly introduced to those prolific Black writers who laid the culture’s literary foundation.  How else will they learn how to balance their imaginations?  Think about it this way.  Most secondary English classes require students to read what has been dubbed as ‘classics’ by authors such as Emily Dickinson, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Henry David Thoreau, Shakespeare, Jane Austen, and William Faulkner.  If I recall my high school English class experience correctly, we read very few titles by Black authors.  I’m almost certain that hasn’t changed much in the past 20 years.  So, whenever a Black child desires to read works by Black authors (like I did), if the only thing that’s available to them are the urban fiction titles….now, do you see why I’m frightened?

Suppose White children are reaching for these urban fiction titles.  Will they believe that they have effectively tapped into the essence of the African American cultural landscape? If you add the current state of Hip Hop music and about 90% of Black television, then unfortunately, I would have to answer that question with a resounding ‘yes’.  Both White and Black children would have a rather lopsided perspective about the African American experience, which is a pity.  For Black children,  reading these works could potentially establish a warped sense of cultural identity, while for White children, these works could possibly continue the legacy of stereotyping.

Could it be that serious, Chandra?  Yes.  It is.  After all, we are talking about impressionable minds here.  Besides, books are a gateway to acquiring knowledge and understanding.  Whether fiction or non-fiction, all books can be used as a learning tool and give a deeper meaning to many of life’s occurrences and bodies of thought—past and present.  For instance, we are able to gain incredible insight regarding the past just by reading a book written during that time frame.  During present times, books  shape our opinions regarding ongoing social, political, economic, and cultural issues.  Therefore, it would be foolhardy to discount the effects of these ‘hood stories’.

So,  is urban fiction really needed? Yes and no.  Yes, because I have always been a firm believer in balance.  Everything Black ain’t good.  In addition, Blackness has many different angles and all of them deserve some light.  But there should be a sufficiency of all of it; not some of it—and most definitely not the worst of it.  This leads me to the other answer of  ‘no’.   In the long run, urban fiction will perhaps cause more harm than good because it will become harder to spot passionate and sincere writers.  If garbled vulgarity is considered quality writing and storytelling, then that means nearly anybody can write a book. Secondly, the need to construct a complete story and most importantly, leave the reader with a profound message will no longer be the motivation to write.  What a disgrace to the legacy of Black writers such as James Baldwin, Chester Himes, Zora Neale Hurston, Alice Walker, Richard Wright, James Weldon Johnson, Gloria Naylor, John Oliver Killens, etc.

The aim of urban fiction is the same as much of contemporary U.S. culture—to entrap us all in the downward spiral of  dysfunction without a purpose.  For us, as African Americans, this nihilistic behavior is becoming the centerpoint of  our cultural identity.  Considering that Black culture has been in a defensive position for several decades, trust me, that’s not a good look and I….am….scared.

Sidebar Note: I have a good friend of mine that works in a bookstore.  He told me one day while we were discussing this very subject that the bookstore does not donate any of these urban titles to prisons for inmates to read.  Why?  Because the prison administrators do not want the content of the books to interfere with the prisoners’ rehabilitation.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MARCUS MOSIAH GARVEY

August 17, 1887–The spirit formerly known as Marcus Mosiah Garvey was born in Jamaica.  Early in his life, he emigrated to the United States and became one of the greatest black leaders in history.  Through his organization, the Universal Negro Improvement Association, Garvey instilled a philosophy which sought to unite all Africans across the globe.  His ideals bore his name, Garveyism, but it is also referred to as Pan-Africanism.

In the documentary, A Great and Mighty Walk, Dr. John Henrik Clarke posited that Marcus Garvey should be re-examined and more thoroughly analyzed.  I couldn’t agree more.   Garvey could be considered a prophet of sorts because much of his philosophical thoughts were seriously ahead of its time.  Some 122 years after his birth, the African Diaspora is still not unified with Africa struggling to regain control and rebuild after centuries of colonialism.  Here in the U.S., truthfully speaking, African Americans are still largely engaged in a ‘catch up’ phenomenon that is being threatened by this current economic turbulence.  To that end, much of what Garvey wanted for Black people has not been fully realized.  Therefore, revisiting his ideals and concepts could perhaps light the way to a new understanding of how we are to proceed as a people in the Obama era.

For the record, Garvey supported the notion of Black women being involved in the movement, having a branch of the UNIA that was specifically designed for women.  I highly recommend locating a copy of the documentary, Look for Me in the Whirlwind, which is an in-depth look at the life and work of Marcus Garvey.  He died in 1940 at the age of 53.

The Funk Still Matters

Born in 1973,  I consider myself a product of the 70s, which makes me a Child of Production; a clone of Dr. Funkenstein.  Yes, I’m a ‘flawless testimony to the attainment of the P-Funk, endowed with conceivement of true groove.’   As a full-grown production living in another millennium, I am here to proclaim that the Funk still matters and there is just as much of a need to ‘blow the cobwebs out your mind’ today as in 1976.   In spite of the freedoms that we enjoy at the expense and bloodshed of those known and unknown, there’s far too many of you with a molecular structure that resembles Sir Nose d’VoidofFunk.

As a matter of fact, if the above paragraph loses you, then my point has been proven.  It means you are not a Funkateer…and that’s alright.  Hopefully, this post will be the spark that ignites your conversion.

On July 22nd,  George Clinton celebrated his 68th birthday.  Sir Lollipop Man aka StarChild alias the Long Haired Sucka is still bringing funk to the masses as he is currently on tour with a new album featuring the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sly Stone, The RZA, and Santana among others.  You would think that Dr. Funkenstein doesn’t have anything left to prove  so I suppose he’s just out here ‘doing it to death’ for the love of the fans.  I can dig it.  Clinton is regarded as the third major figure in the funk music genre, originated by the late Godfather of Soul, James Brown and fueled even more by the success of Sly and the Family Stone.

Just for the few of you who don’t know, Funk is a style of music that centers everything on the ‘One’ beat, better known as the downbeat, instead of the melody.  It tends to infuse heavy bass grooves with fierce horns and Hammond B3 organ chords.  The arrangements could range from tightly constructed with something in every pocket to loose and off-center.   But that’s not Funk entirely because it takes on several variations.  You just know it when you hear it.  From ‘Papa’s Got a Brand New Bag’ to ‘Thank You (Falettin’ Me Be Mice Elf Agin)’ to ‘The Mothership Connection’, Funk is guaranteed to hit you somewhere deep because you got to feel it in order to move to it.

That’s why it still matters.

Clinton’s P-Funk movement was comprised of a few dozen musicians and singers,  performing either separately or collaboratively as Parliament/Funkadelic and then spinning off to other smaller groups such as The Horny Horns, Parlet, and the Brides of Funkenstein.   P-Funk rose to fame in the 70s,  a groundbreaking decade in its own respect because it was the first full decade of legal integration.   At the same time, African Americans were embracing their ethnic heritage,  rocking Afros and daishikis  as well as denouncing many Eurocentric ideals.  Deeper still, the country was trying to recover and nurse the wounds from the tumultuous 60s, while dealing with the plight of rising oil prices, terrorist conflicts, and a volatile economy.   Sounds like once upon a time called NOW, yes?

It’s quite easy to understand how the masses grasped P-Funk’s musical offering and adhered to the command of  ‘giving up the funk’.   The mantra is still quite relevant for a few reasons.   Let’s start explaining it this way.  P-Funk captivated legions of fans with their cosmic funk mixes, astounding stage presence, and outlandish costumes.  Of course, the arrival of an actual Mothership descending on the stage is enough to mesmerize anybody, even if you’re watching it on DVD like I did, but their appeal was always a positive one.  Gritty.  Edgy.  Sometimes Political.  Sometimes Spiritual.  But always positive.  The music demanded attention and could coax even the most depressed person into the wildest frenzy of loose booty.

Unlike a lot of what’s passing for music today,  P-Funk’s artistic masterpieces  forced even Motown to update their bubble-gum and lollipop signature sound.   Meaning, P-Funk was trend setting–definitely  mainstream, but not faddish, unlike Disco.  That’s the meaning of ‘walking underwater and not getting wet.’  Back then,  it meant something to be mainstream; those artists could actually boast of being the cream of the crop.  With live instrumentation and a compelling, gifted roster of musicians such as Glen Goins and Bernie Worrell,  P-Funk became one of the definitive stamps of the 70s decade.  What’s the definitive stamp for this era?  Get back to me on that one,  ok?

The most amazing aspect of P-Funk is its timelessness.   Just take one listen to a joint like ‘Cosmic Slop’ or ‘One Nation Under a Groove’ and you will hear something that has been sampled several times by my generation’s Hip Hop genre, but it has yet to be duplicated.  When I’m grooving, I have to remind myself that this stuff is well over 30 years old.  I’m certain that most of the fly by night tunes of today will not be able to sustain such an effect.

I mean, really…approximately 25 to 30 years from now, it will not be acceptable to break out into a fresh chorus of  ‘Do the Stanky Leg’.  But in 2009, some 30 something years after the release of The Clones of Dr. Funkenstein, it’s still pretty damn fly to quip, “The bigger the headache, the bigger the pill…and they call me the Big Pill.”

Lastly and simply put,  P-Funk is critical because in spite of everything that’s going on right now, the best thing to do is dance our way out of our constrictions.  We have way too many of them burdening us down.

Funk is its own reward.

Yes, I’m Still Here…

I went on hiatus for awhile. Why? Because a little something called Life happened. You know, it only takes one bump in the road to make the car swerve. So, here I am, getting back on my writing schedule! Hallelujah! As much as writing brings me alive, you would think I’d write every day…and in my head, I do…because I’m thinking all damn day about something. But in the middle of Life’s errands, the time to get down to the business of scribing lost out, unfortunately.   But NO MORE!!!

I’m gonna write b/c to me, writing is breathing.

So, here’s to Life….may it continue to happen, but may I also, God help me, continue to happen, too. I have been charged with ensuring that the Southern Eccentrik is put on the map and taken seriously.  I’ve accepted that charge and will allow myself to be held accountable for my missteps and inconsistency.

Poem: Big Love

This ain’t a full-figured epithet celebrating big girl bliss. Nor is it polyamorous practicality as displayed on premium cable. Instead it is a revelation granted to me, given by me to myself first…

And then, All women who find themselves in a peculiar state of solitude that You didn’t intend to be your friend as long as it has… Now, you have grown weary of the wait and comtemplate on how the Hour glass is ticking. Meanwhile, you are trying your best to sticking it out And finding your strength waning….feigning singlehood with smiles that hide Them tears at night. Smiles that serve as gates to the fortress built around Your heart. Ain’t nobody getting in, we say, cause we been there….done seen That land of let downs and desire not to be a resident of it no more…but won’t resign And remain…working through the disdain and the pain…then girding up to swallow that burn again—loving men is our poison of choice.

See, that’s the problem with us girls that’s got that big love. We either stay too long or ride a wave that’s destined to brew into a typhoon that eventually crashes against the mainland of our emotional seas. In the path of destruction lies our intentions, a complete disaster. So, we master the ability to rebuild—and fill ourselves with hope. A hope that we add to butter smooth words; a hope that we blend with prayer, a hope that we use to churn their simplistic lust for us into pure and honest desire that will pant after us as we have allowed ourselves to be captured. We have a knack for issuing decrees, passing intimate legislation complete with haughty words about our new ‘Dos and Don’ts’.

But in the end, we find ourselves stirring them in a bowl, eating those words with a platinum spoon; and frowning at the bitter aftertaste. Some of us never make it out the starting gate. Do all the preparation, the training, and what not—but here’s what we got—a forfeit; a no show, a cancellation; a denied opportunity to rise to the occasion. But thanks be to My God for a brand new angle on the situation—perhaps our love is too big for one—it’s for an entire nation. Let them step inside and find their solace through the labors of love we harbor in our bellies. We belong to everyone and no one in particular…with this gift of a load—love too big for one container—pouring it all would make it explode. Let the nations step inside; find their solace through the labors of love we harbor in our bellies. We are everywhere and nowhere at the same time…with beautiful minds that think in terms of light years….much unlike our peers who have cosigned on the dotted line of the domestic contract with warm stoves brewing cook up and choking on unspoken plans.

Instead, we stand in demand of deliverance from an evil that seeks to lock us in a box of apathy. Let the nations step inside; find their solace through the labors of love we harbor in our bellies. We convict like Tamar. We judge like Deborah. We inquire and establish new order like Sheba. We carry redemption like Mary. We love like Magdelene. Only Big Love can acquire a place in legacy, And that is the blessing of being a girl with Big Love.

Remnants of the Old South

Yes, a picture is worth a thousand words.  One bright Saturday afternoon, I decided to pull out my camera and snap some shots of this peculiar city of Memphis.  I’ve been working on a piece that will adequately describe my current place of residence, but it’s been rather difficult to pull all of the elements of the piece together. However, I will definitely work it out and publish the piece because it’s necessary.  For right now, I will let these pictures serve as proper representation of a city with a haunting past. 

At one point in its history, Memphis had a thriving cotton industry because of its likely transportation system. While I am not quite sure if this building was used for cotton production, I snapped the photo because of the inscription, perhaps indubitably giving Memphis a subtitle.   

 

This slab, located at the intersection of Auction and Main Street in Downtown Memphis, is part of the original auction block used during slave auctions.  Interestingly enough, Memphis has a predominately African American population with an African American mayor and unfortunately is the site where Martin Luther King, Jr.  was assassinated. The roots of racism run deeply in this city.  While not as overt as it has been in the past, the wounds of racial divide are still open and seething.   This auction block stands as a painful reminder of a people who are still incredibly marginalized.

  

I really like this picture because it symbolizes the struggle of Memphis.  Let me explain.  The billboard, which should have been taken down by the time I took this picture, is advertising the 101st Holy Convocation for the Church of God in Christ (COGIC).  COGIC is a denominational organization comprised of primarily African American clergy and congregation.  The Holy Convocation is a week-long conference of sorts featuring several worship services and other events.  The convocation generates millions of dollars in revenue, making it one of the principle revenue generators for Memphis, along with Graceland and Beale Street.  

The Memphis skyline is in the distance beyond the trees. On the far left is the Peabody Place complex which is probably less than ten years old.  Those three buildings in the middle are banks, SunTrust, Regions (formerly Union Planters), and First Tennessee and then, on the far right, is one of Memphis’ oldest buildings and only skyscraper, the Sterick Building.  It is indicative of an era when Memphis was a chief boomtown in the South. 

Symbolically, the Peabody Place building represents Memphis’ efforts to move forward, incorporating several revitalization projects within the Downtown area over the past eight to ten years.  The bank buildings are representatives of the old money that circulates in this city, moving from one prominent family to another and never quite trickling down to the masses.  An Old South jewel, the Sterick Building is a reminder of a glorious Memphis past that culminated decades ago and since that time, the city has not recovered from that long spiraling downturn.

However, the billboard is in full view as Memphis boasts of its Bible Belt heritage.  It’s a troubling heritage as some of the issues surrounding Memphis’ growth could be related to the deep influence of the local church community and especially, the racial divide among congregants who read the same Bible and worship the same Jesus.  At the same time, the local church community has yet to tap into the tremendous power that it possesses as a change agent to push Memphis beyond its ill-constructed barriers.