Uncomfortable truths

She won't be my lover. I can't be her friend.

Essay #1

Growing up my family went to church at Memorial Presbyterian, but Al Jarreau led Sunday school. My brothers and I would wake each morning to my dad’s stereo, permeating eager horns and mellow sax melodies through the walls. Soon the scent of bacon would draw us downstairs, where Will Downing blessed breakfast.

When music shares a day with God, it quickly becomes an institution in a young boy’s life. Music had a standing reservation in two rooms at our house. Across from the steps leading upstairs, my dad set up a small shrine to musical acoustics. The receiver, tape deck, and CD changer—accompanied in later years by XM radio and a seldom-used iPod—were connected by a series of cords carefully organized to never tangle. This audio command center was nestled in a wooden cabinet. When opened the scent of the wood adds warmth to the rich tones passing through the twin standing speakers.

But the true treasure was in the basement. My dad kept a receiver and turntable on the center of a built-in bookshelf. The setup rivals me in age, with a little more of the wicker cover peeling off the speaker faces with each knock of bass. This was my altar. And the six surrounding shelves held my gospel. Here I became a disciple of George Clinton. Here I became a student of Jimi Hendrix. Here I climbed the stairway to heaven with Led Zeppelin. The basement became my retreat at times of confusion. My musical ancestors stood on call, eager to offer guidance towards my understanding of the complex world around me.

Music never seemed to want to be left in the house. Family road trips weren’t complete if Michael and the Jackson 5 didn’t lead a sing-along. My mom would even invite Barry Manilow to share the songs that make the world sing. She contributed greatly to the diversity of my musical upbringing, introducing me to country music “because they tell such great stories.” The family van sported presets for Lite 102.9 pop hits and Power 98 hip-hop and R&B on the same radio face.

My brother Nigel’s radio only needed one radio preset, Magic 96.1. The Mamas & the Papas teamed up with Fats Domino, Chuck Berry, and Jimi Hendrix to provide a constant stream of oldies hits muffled through his closed door. I’m sure my parents accepted the volume issues and oft heard duet attempts in exchange for the Beatles’ afterschool lessons of “Let It Be” and “With A Little Help From My Friends.” My brother was the only kid I knew who was a flower child at age nine in 1998.

In 2005 I graduated from high school and edited music. My dad enforced a “No Parental Advisory” policy when I was in middle school, and that continued as an unspoken understanding until my senior year. Of course Nigel used this turning point to ditch the Wal-Mart discs too. Moving from classic oldies to classic rap, his two most prized possessions were The Marshall Mathers LP and Straight Outta Compton. That year I drove to school. Seven o’clock classes weren’t as hard to get through after Eazy E and Ice Cube reminded us that our voice mattered—and that there were much more serious things to get annoyed about. Later that year I met a new best friend. While I endured an early stint in the food service industry, Kanye West invited me on his “Spaceship” as he escaped a similar predicament at the GAP.

As I continued my academic pursuits to college, I was immersed in a bevy of musical enlightenment. Fondly known as “The Mecca” of Black American scholarship and culture, Howard University introduced me to my contemporaries from California to Lagos, Nigeria. Howard introduced me to the soul hiding beneath John Mayer’s pop persona and the extent of Jay-Z’s poetic mastery. My greatest electives were in the pros and cons of the go-go cover, the intricacies of Ace Boogie’s toe wop, the breadth of Philly soul, the pure kinetic energy of Louisiana zydeco, and the funk roots of Southern rap.

Recently I discovered Funkadelic’s “Maggot Brain.” During a ten-minute solo, Eddie Hazel bends riff and chord, a masterful manipulation of the electric guitar into a vehicle of human emotion. I sent a late night email to my dad, asking how the record had been missing from my musical education. I woke the next morning to an email notification on my phone:

“Well the album has been in the basement for years. Maybe I thought that it was a little deep for you, but it’s good to hear that you can appreciate it. I’ll burn a CD of the album and send it to you. It is a classic.”

In that simple paragraph, my dad summed up how far I’d come in my musical education and how much more there was to explore. It is comforting that there will always be music to discover. Answers to shine a light on a confusing life. Motown shaped my youth. No Doubt helped me through adolescent angst. Outkast led me into manhood. Who will be the voice that influences my next stage? What will be the score to my future?

It may be time to return to that basement altar. I haven’t been to Sunday school in awhile.