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August

August 12, 2005

My people, my people, my people . . . It’s hot in New York. In fact, it’s been so hot, I couldn’t sit down and write a statement since, ahem, February! No, it’s true! Well, you know . . . Big up to all the folks we met in Florence, Rome, Athens, Santorini, and New Mexico. Busy summer, indeed. Thanks to everyone who brought parties my way in the past few months. We’ve had some real bangers at CODA, Triumph Room, Lot 61, and a host of other spots, so keep ‘em coming! And, ‘nuff respect to everyone who purchased “Vinyl Voyage: First Flight.” The response has been amazing – I’ll have more soon. As always, big up to those who got engaged (what up Mo and Clay!) or married (Jess & Cass – where you at!), and congrats to those expecting or already delivered. I know I missed birthdays, but I’m a bum. Last thought: Mom Dukes, get well quickly. Get at me soon . . .

P.S. My favorite 3 year-old Jalen has been a constant source of entertainment. We went to the beach the other day where he saw a grown man in speedos and promptly asked, “Why he have on panties?” Love that kid . . .

- 2 V’s

"The Sugar Shack"

Wrinkled clothes tell the story; the story of the sounds being played. What are they playing? Maybe it’s the sign hanging from the rafters that leads me to it, but listen to “Got To Give It Up” from Marvin Gaye while peering in on the party and you can almost understand their movements . . . Or, maybe it’s something funkier. Almost without exception, each body is contorted to the rhythm: Exaggerated poses with extended arms and bent legs. And all eyes are closed – I never noticed that. Must be the music. The music is seductive, the kind of seduction that makes you close you eyes and feel. The kind that moves you involuntarily. With no sight, the dancers are still in step. Couples moving in unison. A man twisting by himself – caught by the sounds the band is creating behind him. There is a perfection in this party.

The name tells it all: The Sugar Shack. It’s not glamorous, but it’s the spot. One light, no disco balls or fancy strobes. And, sugar? What is being played here eases pains and tastes good going down. No, this party didn’t need any dressing up – the band, the dancers, the libations – a combination resulting in the perfect vibe. And captured in one of the most recognizable paintings in Black history . . .

The scene interrupted my thoughts in that moment. Which was odd – the clothes were different, hairstyles and skin tones more varied, lighting more colorful. But, for an instant, I was brought back to a time I never experienced . . . Maybe I didn’t need to have been there to have experienced it. The elements were the same: bodies in collective motion, infectious rhythms holding even the most tired hostage from leaving for the night. And that perfection. The perfection of the alley-oop; of completing your partner’s thought; of simply moving as if guided by an external force. Choreography without premeditation. It was all there that night. And, I was the band.

I’ve always been entranced by the power music can have over people. It’s why I do what I do. But, there are still those nights when everything just falls into place. I may not even feel like I am doing anything different, but for some reason, it just works right. And, all I can do is give the Jordan vs. Portland shrug: I can’t explain it either, but I’m enjoying the moment.

If you were with us that Friday night at Joe’s Pub, you understand. It was almost 4:00 in the AM and the place was still packed. The hosts had moved themselves from the door and the cash box and the business of the night and had relocated to the stage where the four of them fell in sync in an unplanned routine. Yes, it was just a party. But, there was something magical in the air that night; something perfect. Every mix was clean. Every song worked. No voice was needed on a mic to tell people when to put their hands up or when to yell. They just knew and did it in harmony. Each set was timed perfectly and I never seemed to find that song that would send them to their seats, or to the bar, or home. No, we were all stuck there, as if we had no choice in the matter.

And, as three-pointer after three-pointer fell through the hoop, I began to take in what I was creating. I grabbed the record I had just played to return it to its sleeve and paused, just for a moment, to look at the party. I mean, really look at it. Not the close-up of the people in front, or the party on the side singing along. Zoomed out, to take in the entire party. It appeared in slow motion, like a Biggie video. Laughter was in sync. Even handshakes and greetings had rhythm. But, it was the dancing that mattered. And, each body was in motion, to the same beat. My beats. In that moment, I witnessed the perfection: Sugar Shack @ Joe’s Pub. It was a masterpiece. One I didn’t realize I was working on until I stepped back to look at it. And, I watched it all – just for a moment . . .

Basking internally from the moment I had shared with no one and everyone, I let the final record begin to fade out slowly while packing my crates. I had already been given the last song nod – it was 4:00 AM, time for folks to go home. But, they hadn’t. They were still there. And, as the volume decreased from the speakers, the volume increased from the crowd. I couldn’t make it out at first, but it became clear in a hurry . . . “Va-der! Va-der! Va-der!” I actually had to turn around to see if I had allowed the previous moment to fill my head with self-aggrandizing praise. I hadn’t. It was real. Started by one of the Faithful, the chant had been picked up by the rest of the party, most of whom did not know me. The music was off now and my name stood alone. Humbling. Not because I didn’t realize how perfect the sounds had been – but, because I didn’t realize they felt it, too . . . Soon, a second chant began to emerge: “One – More – Song!” “One – More – Song!” “One – More – Song!” The awestruck hosts turned and gave me the Jordan shrug. What else can we do? Security gave me the nod . . . I had no idea what song could follow this type of praise that would match the effectiveness of the rest of the night. I hadn’t even given it any thought. I don’t repeat songs, and my records were all but packed already . . . Then, it came to me. And, why wouldn’t it? The way the night had gone, it could have ended no other way. The perfect song, the perfect lyrics, to put the close-quotes on the perfect night (and, I hadn’t played it already). Drop . . .

“I see nuff dance before, but I’ve never seen a dance like this/I see nuff dance before, but a dah one yah come top di list.”