The Texas Tiger Chronicles

Sunday, February 19, 2006

Burning R.Kelly at the stake! For Teena, Ronald and Charlie

sippin on the new Marble Mocha Macchiato from Starbucks

Mood: You will have to excuse me but I am having a very "authentic" moment. Questioning what is real and natural. Vivica Fox. Good and pure. R. Kelly's conscience. Untouched and uncompromised. John Legend and his girl. Wild and peaceful. Me and my new friend. In this moment I am experiencing my authentic self. The young boy I had often tried to leave behind. Frolicking in a vast field of grazing grass and wild bushes. Playing with lego blocks all alone. Building a world he could control and conquer. Only to get bored by it all.

Mode: I feel good. I feel at peace. A sense of innocence has come over me sending visions of Raven Symone and Reece Witherspoon running softly through my mind. Fragile. Youthful. Fresh.

I put on a pair of fitted grey slacks I picked up at a thrift store. They cost me all of $1. I accent then with a lovely leather belt. Pulled to the last hole. Me 28-inch waist now a 26. With my tummy deprived of any air, the pants fit me like a glove. Elongating my legs. Cinched underneath my torso. I complete the ensemble with a pink top. A cute v-neck sweater quite pastel. Because nothing says innocence like a man invoking the same primary colors as Paris Hilton.

Melody: “Love and Tears” by Naomi Campbell. “I want to know how to separate love and tears.” I was walking around my room attempting to organize it in such a way that B. Smith wouldn’t mind sitting on my bed to share a joke. Or discuss recipes. I popped in a CD given to me by some former neighbors I sometimes tried to avoid. Living in New York is all about interacting with people you normally would not talk to. Like watching Lisa Loeb’s new show”#1 Single.” Who knew the geeky girl in Batman glasses was so much fun?




You are force to live and experience the lives of strangers. You see their packages. Sometimes delivered to your home. You run into their one-night stands in the elevator. And try to avoid eye contact. You hear their arguments. See their frustration. And when they move out of the building shortly after the 15th. Late at night with a U-Haul. You feel the pain.

But my upstairs neighbors and I shared a love of music. All kinds. Teena Marie. Prince. Chaka Khan. Salt-n-Pepa. Push it real good. Wonderful eclectic music.

There was Katrina. An aging white girl in her 30s with teeth stained from coffee, cigarettes and a few years of drug abuse. Now in recovery, much like Lindsay Lohan. There was Julio, a young Hispanic fellow with teeth the size of Chiclets. He was quiet and demure. And could not hold his liquor. Or his weed. Many nights I stepped over him to get home. And there was Mark. A white man in his 30s who rounded out the group. He threw alcohol-infused socials that he always invited me to.

Once day he gave me a cd. A little mix. Nothing special. Some tunes for the Ipod. Uptown, downtown, lounging music. Perfect for me. And one day at home by myself I put on the cd and across my speakers came a frail voice. One singing about pain and love and hopelessness and longing for someone. The voice was raw and organic. There was no machine trickery. No overdubs. No background singer secretly handling the leads. It was authentic. It was pure. I threw down the vacuum and rushed over to my ibook needing to know who was this woman. Singing my song. The lyric. The verse. All my feelings and emotions reduced to three minutes abstract beats, rhythms and movement.

And right underneath my screen saver with the lime-green neon light show was the name Naomi Campbell (my spiritual big sister). A track from her hit Japanese album “Babywoman.” I put the song on repeat and Naomi and I went through it TOGETHER.

I imagine her walking through some villa in Italy in the winter. Wearing a Versace gown (post-death) designed by Donatella and a long matching white mink coat. On her cellular. Screaming to the top of her lungs at some Italian businessman who is ignoring her pleas. She threatens him. “You be here by 11pm or you will never hold me again.” She slams down the phone and runs into the bathroom. Sits on the floor. She takes a bottle of white pills. One by one. A cry for help. Understanding. Or maybe just attention. But a cry nonetheless. She runs to the bathroom and slams the door. Locking it behind her. She yells at Juan Carlo to never call her again. The phone is off. She thinks about ending it all. He’ll miss her then. She closes her eyes and says “I want to know how to separate love and tears.”

Are they one and the same. Could you have one and not the other. I looked over at the mirror. And I thought about Phyllis Hyman.




Munchies: I am running on fumes. I literally leaped out of bed and was dressed in 15mins. A moment of quick and dirty inspiration. Time for a quick bite. I can’t stop thinking about the two steaks I have been marinating for two days. In jerk seasonings. They will be spicy. And tender. And well-done. Served with a side of fresh vegetables. And a stack of loaded whipped mashed potatoes. I am going to open a bottle of merlot I have been saving for a proper occasion. Inhale the anti-oxidants. Nice dinners like this allow me to think. And contemplate.

This led to me rushing off to the bathroom, slamming the door and bursting into tears over an unreturned phone call. Much like Lindsay Lohan in the “Daughter the Father” video. The Robert Cavalli gown replaced by Ben Sherman soho fit shirt and dark blue GAP denim.

Motif: Should this generation have the power to influence our predecessors?

R.Kelly Must be Stopped!
FOR TEENA, CHARLIE AND RONALD

I remember it like it was yesterday. I was eight years old. Watching Donnie Simpson on Video Soul. Me in my blue flannel pajamas and grey leather slippers. I would sit in front of the TV and mimic the dance moves of each video…that interested me. And then there was Stephanie Mills in a black catsuit and bone straight wig doing the cabbage patch and not wanting to be rushed. With Diana Ross in a wife beater with ripped jeans and a long weave working overtime. And Patti Labelle in concert doing the bankhead bounce as Big Daddy Kane rapped.

I wondered if these artists were chameleons. Changing forms and shapes with the times by their own omission. Or were they being control and manipulated by something bigger than you and I.
I thought about this. At the age of 8. And somehow, I still don’t have any answers. And the cycle keeps spinning.

What is the mark of a truly authentic artist?

A talent untouched by the marketing department of a corporate conglomerate? Unphased by interest groups and consulting firms saying “This is what sells.” “Trust me if you want to go platinum.”

A person sheltered from the cruel and sometimes vicious opinions of tabloids and bloggers. An artist walking in her or her own truth and authenticity. Unbought and unbossed.

I will never forget the first time I heard “Keep it on the Down Low” by R. Kelly. It was boring, uninventive and not very creative. But then, he put out the remix. We were introduced to Mr. Biggs. A greasy old man in a suit fresh from the mall on the predominately colored side of town where you could pick out a matching hat, handkerchief, tie, belt and cane to match your suit all for $99. $89 if its two weeks to Easter.

And I was into it. The song. The video. With Garcelle Beauvais looking stunning.
I bought into it. The whole mess of it all. And so did Ronald Isley.



R.Kelly made a few follow-up videos which I thought were creative. You have to admit, no one flips a remix like Mr. R. Kelly. Then I went to see the Isley Brothers in New Orleans (pre-Katrina) at the Essence Music Fest. I wanted to go on a Voyage to Atlantis. It’s back to you my dear. Hello it’s me. Please don’t change. I want to be living for the love of you. As I hear those footsteps in the dark. You are such a choosey lover. I’m so glad you chose me. Let’s lay together and make a harvest for the world.

It was July 4th in New Orleans and I could smell the summer breeze as Sinbad exited the stage. Then Mr. Biggs came out. Not Ronald Isley. It was the greasy man from the video. With a cane. A zoot suit. And two scantly clad women young enough to be his great granddaughters.
I was confused. Nearly 30 years in the music business and a marriage to the iconic Angela Winbush and this is who you become?

And just two weeks ago I was at home. In my room. Just relaxing. Watching the music channel on the TV since its already paid for. May as well partake of the musical selections. Besides, the classic R&B channel on Time Warner is not to be slept on.

They put you slap in the middle of the funk. Alicia Myers. Womack and Womack. Rufus. Minnie Ripperton. The Gap Band. When they sung a song, you knew it was the truth. It was authentic. If Millie Jackson said she was “Caught Up” with a married man, you believed her. When Roy Ayers sang about the sunshine and living in Brooklyn, you knew it was coming from a special place.

The Gap Band. Outstanding. Girl you knock me out.



From the vocals to the instruments. Even the horn section was speaking the truth. So what happened to Charlie Wilson? I swear I saw him on BET and I nearly had a “Depends” moment. Sitting in a chair. Age 79. Was Charlie Wilson. With cornrows. A big belt buckle. A tight white t-shirt. Several platinum chains. A few rings. And a smirk on his face looking at the camera.
Again. I was confused. You make it through segregation, the Civil Rights Movement, the Black Panther Movement, the Sexual Revolution, the Crack Epidemic, the Cold War and the war in the Gulf…and open your eyes at the ripe age of 87 and you let someone tell you “This is what sells?”

What was going through Charlie Wilson’s head as Keisha Cole put those cornrows in his head? And those platinum chains. And the belt. And then I had an “Aha” moment. Like in this month’s Oprah. It was revealed, by BET’s 106 and Park, that R. Kelly co-produced some of the album. That explains it all.

R. Kelly is the real problem facing black America. He corrupts the youth. Seduces fatherless underage girls. And I guess it isn’t good enough that he has corrupted modern day R&B. Now he is reaching back and screwing with the classics by attacking our iconic legend. Convincing them they are young and sexy. AND THEY AREN’T.



At no point should a man over 40…ok…35…by rocking ANY trend rocked by his sons and daughters. Charlie Wilson sitting up there looking like Chris Brown’s great-grandfather. It was sad.

Is he that hard up for money that he does whatever his record label tells him? I guess that is a story and a truth only he can tell.

LA DONA



And then Teena Marie went down to New Orleans and let Mannie Fresh get at her. I loved “Still in Love.” Any song that blends Lady Tee with Al Green has to be special. But seriously. The bra top. The chain. The hat. I know Teena is gangsta. I mean she probably did lines in the bathroom with Rick James. So she has street cred. But why the album cover?

I do not want my R&B icons compromising to make a dollar. Mixing it up in the dirty rappers. Hiring gay stylists to get them clothes from Soho. Posing for CD pics in tricked out limos. Sleeping with young broke starlets to validate their fading sex appeal.

It’s all a bit pathetic. And quite sad. To have the talent. And the drive. Yet compromise yourself.

Maybe Charlie Wilson likes looking like a dried up recently released ex-con. And maybe Ronald Isley thinks being a Viagra-popping overweight granddaddy is really appealing to his 26-year-old wife. I don’t know this.

All I know is that we need to lock Gladys Knight up in a padded room and only allow Quincy Jones and Clive Davis to speak to her because she is the only “untouched” icon. The others have been corrupted. And I am afraid for the future. I swear if Dionne Warwick ever records a song that has a rap interlude I am going to slit the veins in my leg, Lindsay Lohan style.

I hold my icons to a higher standard. Because who else can I turn to when I am alone in my room. And no one understands me. Except Teena Marie. I would like to imagine she is not somewhere suffering from an identity crisis and money problems. As that would affect my ability to take her advice from the Irons in the Fire album.



I just want my icons to be true to themselves. Until the bitter end.

It makes me wonder will I ever be free. Free to make my own decisions. To be my authentic self without compromising my integrity, career or art. I want to move to a space where our artists and cultural historians can feel free to express themselves without repression. God knows the world makes us mortals do that enough.

I want Issac Hayes with a bald head, draped in silver chains and impregnating a myriad of groupies as a form of social protest against the treatment of Black men. I want Phyliss Hyman on stage singing songs of heartbreak and despairs; not afraid to show us that she felt fat, alone, lonely and that this was the end. I want Parliament. And all of its members sucking on pacifiers and walking around in diapers reminding us that we are all stuck in the oral and anal stages. Just like Freud said. I want Chaka Khan in front of a funky band high and lifted singing about a Sweet Thing before passing out backstage and going home to one of her white husbands…Diana Ross style. I want Shirley Murdock singing about some woman’s husband that she is screwing before flipping the script and singing a gospel number to cleanse her soul. Give me Teena Marie at the piano banging out “Cassonova Brown” about falling in love with a popular playboy who could never love “just you. “

I want the truth in my music. We get enough of the BS and lies and political spins through our other sources of communication. Please don’t touch my melodies.

I want the truth. Fresh and funky. It should be your truth. Your experiences. Your idea for your image. Your idea for the artwork and production. Your heart. Your soul. Your experience.
If after a century of gospel, jazz, blues and soul all the recording industry can give me are repressed homosexuals signing songs to females they haven’t dated since high school or hyper masculine post-prison thugs denying their pasts through the objectification of women, I’m just not interested.

Posted by Texas Tiger in NYC :: 10:30 PM :: 1 Comments:

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