And So It Begins…

How Punk Funk and family influenced a second grader from the Midwest.

Part I

I was 7…..

My Uncle Al abruptly stops vacuuming and turns his attention to the television screen.

I watch him.

On his face, a half shock/half smile consumes the area inches below his forehead.

I kept watching him.

He turned away from the television, picked up the phone and dialed the cordless as he spoke with an audible smirk.

“ Hey Deb, (My Mother) turn to channel 6, its American Bandstand..

There’s this freak on there you have to see”

I now turned my attention to the TV…

A little background….

I grew up in a multi-generational 4 bedroom household.

One that was largely multicultural.

That trickled over from a very early age, to my taste in food and more significantly,music.

The guy across the street, who happened to be my best friend Mindy’s father, taught me how to ride a bike.

During my summers off of school, my Aunt Sue babysat me.

In between fort building excursions, she administered spelling and phonics workbook tasks to keep me and my cousins sharp.

Both my aunt and Mr. Culbertson were different because they were “White”…?

Something that never mattered to me.

“This” isn’t about “that”.

Room by room…

It’s fair to say I’ve always viewed people the same way I view music:

Good music is just “good music” and terrible music is still “good” for someone other than me, just like people.”

Even at a young age, music and the concept of unconditional love have become forever intertwined in my psyche.

In or around 1981, there were five of us residing at 2608 Summerfield Drive.

My mother, my two uncles- Ron and Greg, and my grandmother, Billie Nell Harris

Everyone had their own rooms,and in these rooms they all had their own record player, cassette deck , or some combination of stereo equipment.

I would journey room by room, sometimes even by car, in and out of each of their lives

Music would serve as my backdrop for the interactions with my family throughout the week.

My Sundays were typically spent in and around my Grandmother, Mrs. Billie Nell Harris.

She never took a day off, whether she was at work or completing household chores.

She’d rise around 4:30 am, let the dog out, put the coffee on…..one of those old percolator coffee kettles you set on the stove burner

Her house shoes would “slosh-flip-slosh-flip” on the linoleum as she’d walk over to the fridge to decide what she wanted to cook for breakfast,

Breakfast was a full breakfast with eggs, sausage, toast, etc.

Grandma spoiled us all for sure.

She’d saunter over to her radio, without hesitation, she’d twist the dial counter-clockwise until that high pitched “Click” sound would echo throughout the kitchen.

She’d then level the volume to an appropriate setting based on who was in the kitchen and her general mood typically.

Announcer Jingle: “WASK AM Radio, 1450 on your dial”..

This was her mainstay station. Kim Carnes “Bette Davis Eyes,” or Christopher Cross’s “Ride Like The Wind” could be heard on Adult Contemporary.

Every time I listen to what we now call “Yacht Rock,” I’m reminded of her.

In the afternoon, she’d be in the midst of cleaning bathrooms and ironing clothes, but right before that, she’d turn the radio off and fire up the record player.

They built this record player into one of those wooden stand-alone consoles.

You remember the ones that doubled as decorative table furniture at first glance?

When you opened that double hinged door, that’s off center to the left to reveal a full “FM/AM Dial” analog radio, and a silver slot door off to right door emblazoned:

“8 Track Player”

The record player was where 33' or 45' vinyl magic happened.

She had in her possession a collection that included early James Brown, an Elvis gospel album, and various live jazz albums, who I suspect belonged to her late husband, Mr. Courtney Harris.

I tried to help her with chores, but she usually rebuffed in protest..

Grandma: “Go play, I got this”

See, grandma liked to complete tasks on her own.

Tasks were meditative and not laborious to her.

Just a mop, a dust broom, and melody, all in one meditation.

My grandmother, Billie Nell Harris, had a taste in music that defied genre convention.

This meant Country, Pop, Blues, Jazz, Gospel that she may choose to Gospel’s like “Oh Happy Day”, Late 70s-early 80s Country like Johnny Cash, Eddie Rabbitt, or Waylon Jennings.

Every now and again she’d serve up sonic surprises like Rod Stewart’s “Do You Think I’m Sexy?”

Barry White, Aretha Franklin, and later in my teens, Little Howlin’ Wolf, were the other artists she exposed me to the most from a very young age from what I recall.

She loved music.

It still hurts.

Random weekdays, I would be spent with my Uncle Ron, who would hold court in and around the house.

Ron stayed busy…lifting weights, working, and being “Uncle Ron”.

Even though he often took me fishing on the weekends, it was the time that we spent in his fire engine red 1974 Chevy Nova that stands out in my memory.

He was so proud of that car.

He purchased it brand new with the money he earned working at Burger Chef his senior year all by himself.

The highlight for me, though, was when he added one of this aftermarket 8 track and a small amplifier to his existing radio for an experience that can only be described as an early forerunner to the subwoofer system.

On random Saturdays, we’d cruise to a fishing pay lake on the outskirts of town.

The amplified sounds of The Bee Gees, Al Green, Stevie Wonder, and The Rolling Stones filled the space between his cheap cigarette smoke and my ears.

There’s nothing better than jamming out in a car with someone you love.

It was true then, and it is now….

My Mom worked.

She worked hard. She worked often.

On her rare days off from working overtime,she would play Kool and the Gang, The Brother’s Johnson, Tower Of Power, Chaka Khan, Minnie Ripperton, and Rick James, Luther Vandross.

She would do so on the record player and in the car.

Before and after school.

Anita Baker.

During the ride to the grocery store.

More Anita Baker…

Anytime or anywhere… music!

In the company of my mother,as sure as water’s wet,music…just happend!

Just like breathing.

Though, like every other 7-year-old who gets in trouble, I’d be banished to my room for punishment.

Mom: “Close the door behind you and Ill let you know when you can come back out.”

I’d go in my room.

“Thud!!!!!..the sound of my immature attempt at getting ‘the last word’

I’d hurl my body onto my bed in protest

Then..

I would have an emotional melt-down which would generally last for few minutes.

Like any other seven-year-old, those few minutes felt like an eternity.

Once I became calm, I’d tune my toy radio to “Z-96 WAZY”, a local station,or I’d turn on my record player while I sat there, sulking in punishment.

That very act from my youth became commonplace and still held true today.

When I became upset, I escaped into music.

Mom would let me play the music, as long the volume was low, everytime this “punishment scenario” would play out.

Music gave me solace then, as it does now.

Some Saturdays, when I wasn’t fishing with my Uncle Ron) were reserved for both my Mom, and, my Grandma , and myself.

Just the three of us..and a poodle..

And yes..music is an integral part of the days events

We would watch Soul Train….faithfully…..

The day would usually go down like this…

Grandma would rise early, usually around 4:30 am, drink a mug of Folger’s with my mother, and then proceed to the roast that was marinated the prior night in the crock pot.

I’d bound into the living room at 7am, wearing my blue pajamas.

That pleasing aroma of crock pot submerged roast and the bacon frying would rouse me in an instant.

We would then eat breakfast and retire to our respective toils.

My Grandmother would tend her focus on the roast,and I would assume my place near the toy box; playing with action figures..

But …..when Don Cornelius, the Soul Train Dancers, and the 2 featured acts that followed were on our television….

All.

Action.

Ceased.

Nothing else mattered at that moment.

Not my toys. Not Grandma’s stewing roast.

Nothing except the time, the place, and more importantly, a sense of family

We sat couch-locked transfixed, pupils maxed, ears perked.

During that hour, all was right in the world.

We were family. We were together.

Soul Train was like a church as well as a place to see positive black images.

We were family. We were together.

Outside of the unconditional love that bonded the three of us,the music was the ‘other’ glue on Saturdays.

Gregory Woods.

Six foot something, dressed to kill, pretty women of all shades, the best sound systems, and a record collection out of this world.

This was Uncle Greg’s world. I would venture to his world, our basement, early and often.

Curtis Mayfield, Teddy Pendergrass, Barry White, The SOS Band, and Aretha Franklin were just a few of the artists he exposed me to.

He would rig his stereo receiver antenna to the cable box so we could get WBMX out of Chicago.

This was important because we lived in Indiana.

Not exactly a mecca of Funk/R&B.

Though it could be argued that ‘Funk’ genre had its genesis in the midwest.

That’s an essay for another day.

Uncle Greg indoctrinated me to all things Funk, early and often.

Bands like The Ohio Players, Slave, Rick James, The Bar-Kays, Cameo, LTD, and the Funk God himself, George Clinton were just a few of the classes in Uncle Greg’s Funk curriculum.

An authentic sound that felt like I was the clergy zealot you see “catching the holy ghost” at church.

A feeling that’s more spiritual than visceral.

This was how Uncle Greg and the rest of my family influenced me, unconditionally.

A guitar-playing, permed hair rebel.

That ‘Rude-Boy Punk’ attitude that appealed to my youthful hubris.

A smooth, soulful, pixie-like falsetto singing voice rivaled only by that of Motown great, Smokey Robinson.

And now in full color, on my uncle’s television stood “The Freak” as my uncle put it…

It was as if I had a newly discovered sixth sense.

The music spoke to me.

The sound was a blend of everything that my relatives exposed me to, yet extremely unique and not like anything I’d ever seen or heard before.

His music and accompanying theatrics resonated with me immediatly well before ‘Purple Rain’.

I was that second grader your mother warned you about…

The one that never followed the pre-build instructions on the panel of the ‘Legos’ box.

The one listening to the ‘Dirty Mind’ on his Sony Walkman at recess.

To my young mind, his music was different,which made it all the easier to embrace.

It was “mine”.

Fast-forward to now..

I’m in my late forties, I now own as many coveted Prince bootlegs as I have ever have..

Through the years, I’ve traveled through a few states for 15 of his concerts.

All different venues.

Many band lineups.

Forty years later, I remain influenced.

Five foot three guitar playing freaks still mean everything to me.

If you know me, then you know I am as open to and tolerant of different musical genres as I am people.

When I peel back the layers of what I remember about my exposure to new music, there’s a definite connection between my individual relationship with each person I’ve ever encountered, musically speaking.

That is to say, if I know/knew a person, there’s almost a 100% chance that we share a music experience, be it a party, a concert, or a mutual admiration for a band or artist.

It’s now 1987 and I’m in Junior High

I’m now sitting there at the lunch table with bench seats of fire-engine red, the school colors for Tecumseh Junior High Braves.

It’s morning, around 7:45 am right before the 8:00 am bell.

They arranged the tables in rows with adjacent bench seats on either side.

“When you make love..🎶” screams from the cafeteria jukebox that’s sits not far, from the cafeteria’s snack bar.

Someone in your immediate clique, maybe even you, decides to open his or her(s) mouth regarding the song that’s currently playing to :

A. Finish the opening lyrics: “Do you look in the mirror?”

B. Make the classic cliche statement:

“Def Leppard was better before they sold out to the masses..🤦🏿‍♂️”

Or my personal favorite…..

C. Say nothing while studying the reaction of the girls at other tables. Essential and necessary research that contributed to the best sweetheart mix-tapes..

Those moments, those small discussions of bands that you’ve discovered, where you were when you discovered the band, and definitely, who you were with is ultimately what this is all about.

My teen years were formative, like any other pre-teen/teen experience.

Those years were filled with examples of meeting those new people, discovering what they listen to, and the moments that lead to these memories….

Next up : ‘Shut Up & Listen’