Soulacoaster Read online

  So we started thinking and plotting, trying to come up with a story that we were sure Mom would buy. We got it all planned out. We thought we were real smart.

  Mom came home and right off yelled, “What the hell happened in here?”

  Big Bro Bruce led off. Me and Killer were his backup.

  “We was just sitting in the living room watching TV,” said Bruce, “when someone, maybe they were gang members or something, came by, hollering and screaming, and the next thing we knew, they threw this brick through the window. We ran to see who it was, but by then they were long gone. You see, Mom, the brick is still there, right where it landed. Thank goodness it didn’t hit any of us. We were lucky, Mom, real lucky.”

  My mother stood there, just staring at us. I mean, seriously staring.

  “Gonna ask you boys again,” she said. “What happened?”

  Me and Killer backed up Bruce’s story. We said how scared we were when that brick came flying through.

  Mom kept staring. Her eyes were like laser beams going through our heads. “Gonna ask you one more time, boys, and then I’m gonna get me the biggest switch I can find and start whipping your behinds until I hear the truth.”

  The thought of a whipping had us start defending ourselves even harder. We kept saying we were minding our own business, how we were being good boys, how we didn’t do nothing wrong, and then here came this brick.

  Mom just stood there, shaking her head. We saw that she wasn’t buying a word of it, but at the same time, to our little brains, our story seemed bulletproof.

  “If what y’all say is true,” she said “then why is all the broken glass out there on the porch? Why ain’t there no broken glass here on the inside? If someone throws a brick in the window, how does the glass shatter backwards?”

  We hadn’t thought of that. Of course, my mother was right. There wasn’t a shard of glass in the living room. The only thing in the living room was that brick sitting on the floor—the cleanest brick you ever saw. It wasn’t even sitting crooked.

  For days after that, we could barely sit at all. Mom whupped our asses good. All we got out of the whole thing was a bad memory from her switch of fury.

  Bruce Lee created the kick-butt genre of kung-fu movies that paved the way for everyone who followed him, from Chuck Norris, Steven Seagal, and Jean-Claude Van Damme to Jackie Chan. The death of our indestructible hero—when Lee’s brain swelled in his sleep and he died in 1973—was a painful pill that my brothers and I tearfully swallowed.

  There were times like these when my brothers and I stuck together. At other times we could barely stand being in the same room, especially Cary and me. I never got along too well with my little brother and we used to fight all the time.

  One night I wanted to watch Good Times and he didn’t. He had another program he thought was better. Nothing was better than Good Times. I not only loved the show, but I loved the theme song and I love singing it to this day. The show opened with a shot of a high-rise housing project. Although it was never mentioned in the opening credits, everyone in Chicago knew it was our very own Cabrini-Green. Back then, the hard and “good times” the Evans family—Florida and James, J.J., Thelma, and Michael (“the militant midget”)—faced on every episode was absolute “reality TV” to me.

  But Cary was watching an old Three Stooges movie and wouldn’t let me change channels. He took a swing at me and landed a blow to my left eye. My eye got puffy and I got crazy angry. I grabbed a broom from the kitchen and started chasing him. I planned to hit him over the head with this broom and chased him into the bathroom. Our mother yelled for us to cut it out, but we kept fighting.

  “If y’all don’t stop,” she screamed. “I’m coming in there.”

  I still wasn’t stopping. I got Cary backed into the bathtub when Mom showed up. She happened to be carrying a knife she’d been using to slice some vegetables. I didn’t know she was directly behind me, so when I stepped back, I stepped into her knife and got cut. Blood was gushing everywhere and I was hollering, “Y’all trying to kill me! Mom wants to kill me!”

  My mother dropped the knife and grabbed me, crying, said she was sorry. She immediately started to bandage me up. Turns out the cut wasn’t all that deep, but that didn’t keep me from hollering like a baby.

  My mother always wanted to show us how family should be able to lean on each other and stand by one another. I wanted to please and obey her.

  “Take your brother Cary to the park, Rob,” she said one day. “Let him play on the swings, but don’t push him too high.”

  When we got to the playground, Cary was happy as could be. He loved those swings. He jumped on and asked me to push him. I gave him a shove.

  “Higher!” he screamed. I pushed him higher.

  “Higher!” he screamed even louder, so I pushed him even higher.

  Li’l Bro was having the time of his life. “Higher!” he kept demanding.

  Now I knew not to push any higher because he was already flying super-high. But he was insisting, so I kept pushing while he kept sailing higher until the swing got loose. I saw him get caught on the chain. He came flying off and hit the grass. Cary was a mess. Blood all over. He was crying. I was scared, but somehow I got him home. Mom rushed him to the emergency room.

  All I could think was, God! What have I done to my little brother?

  SECRETS

  As a kid, I had a lot of secrets. Some were terrible, some were beautiful, some were both. There were so many secrets to stuff into my imaginary box that I was running out of room.

  The first secret was the sex. I couldn’t reveal it because of the rule against snitching. I had a feeling my mother wouldn’t play no SECRETS shit—no way, no how. Meanwhile, though, odd things were happening in my body. I was confused by it. I was dying to tell my mother, but I was scared to death about what would happen if the real truth ever came out.

  One secret was about what was happening to me in the house; next was my secret about reading and writing; and the third secret, strange as it seems, was music.

  I would hear music, like I had a radio playing non-stop in my head. Sometimes it would switch stations. Every now and then it would play one song and then sometimes before the songs even finished, another one comes in. I would hear melodies, although I never knew what they meant. In fact, I thought everybody heard the music.

  If I was at school and it was time to read, I’d put my head down on the desk and drift off. While I was drifting off, though, music would start up so heavy and loud that it felt like my head would explode. I’d pick my head up to see if everyone had heard it or I’d say to one of the other kids, “Hey did you hear that?” They’d look at me like I was crazy, and that just made things worse.

  It was another problem that I put in my brick box because I didn’t want everybody to know, and I was afraid about what would happen if they found out. It was one of the scariest times in my life. I couldn’t figure out if I was sick, or retarded, or dying, or if there was just something really messed up about me.

  My mother always taught me that, too much of anything can kill you, so I used to worry about too much music happening inside me. Was it an overload, an overdose?

  I couldn’t really tell anyone how music wouldn’t leave me alone. No one, except maybe my mother, would understand. As a kid, it was even too much for me to understand.

  I was writing songs before I even knew what songwriting meant. Just as one melody came pouring out, another one interrupted it, and then another, and then another, and then all kinds of harmonies, all kinds of notes coming from everywhere—ideas, thoughts, endless songs. It was beyond crazy. I didn’t want to tell anyone what was happening inside my brain because I couldn’t explain it. My brain was overcrowded. Music was overwhelming me.

  I wanted to be happy. Wanted to please my mother, please my teacher; I wanted to be like other kids. Instead I was stumbling and falling down over words while melodies were pouring in and singing inside my head.

  Here’s
another thing: Even though there were times when the sheer volume of music inside my head had me thinking I was an alien, there were even more times when music comforted me, ministered to me, gave me life. Because I absorbed music like a sponge absorbs water, I couldn’t help but soak up every thirst-quenching drop.

  Picture the porch in front of our three-flat on a late afternoon in summer. Sky clear, weather warm, Mom out there with Lucious, Uncle Doug, and Uncle Cuz. (I never did know if the man was my uncle or my cousin.) picture the neighbors dropping by, caught up in the sound of the radio floating on air. Now hear the sounds: the Isley Brothers singing, “Drifting on a memory…ain’t no place I’d rather be…” The groove so free and easy that you had to sway with Smokey, “Soft and warm, a quiet storm,” or Frankie Beverly, “When the sun settles down and it takes a lovely form…that’s the golden time of day.” This was music from heaven, music without pressure, pure magical music. Maze singing, “Shine, children, shine,” and Mom swaying along, arms outstretched, “If you believe in love, shine…”

  That unforced, free-flowing, syncopated sweet sound of voice, horn, and bass made everything seem all right. It took the sting out of life; it was nothing but sugar and cream, nothing but clouds floating on a breeze of love. Music said life, for all the strife, could be heaven on earth—if only we listened to the singers and the songs they sang.

  Watching them listening to Teddy Pendergrass or Donny Hathaway, David Ruffm or Eddie Levert, Etta James or Curtis Mayfield, I started dreaming this dream: I imagined that one day people would be relaxing on their porches listening to music that I made, songs that I sang. One day, I prayed, I could take the pressure off and bring the calm to folks like Mama and Lucious. Like Frankie Beverly and Maze, one day I’d be able to lay down grooves that would make people happy, loving—I’d create music from the heart that touches hearts.

  In the world of music during the 1970s, Chicago Soul was like an ice-cold pitcher of sweet tea. Known for its blend of Southern and Gospel soul, backed by sweet harmonies, and horn and string arrangements, Chicago Soul was as powerful as the music coming out of Detroit or Memphis. Record labels like Okeh, Chess Records, One-derful, and Chi-Sound promoted artists like Jerry Butler and the Impressions, The Dells, Etta James, the Chi-Lites, Curtis Mayfield, and Gene Chandler.

  “Sam Cooke—that’s the most loving man you’ll ever wanna listen to,” Mom said. He was her favorite singer, bar none. “Sam Cooke was raised right here in Chicago,” she’d boast. “Not only was Sam a soul music pioneer,” Mom said, “Sam Cooke was a businessman who owned his own record label and publishing company.

  “He came out the church,” she explained, “but took the church with him. That’s why you hear God in every note he makes. Ain’t no one like Sam.” Even though I was only 10 years old, she strongly urged me to study this man. “You learn him good. There were two sides to him, and you best learn them both—when he was with the Soul Stirrers singing gospel and when he started singing pop, no one could touch him, baby; each side ofthat man’s music was as good as the other.”

  My mother and I listened to Sam Cooke for hours on end, whether it was “Touch the Hem of His Garment” or “You Send Me”; whether “Jesus, Wash Away My Troubles” or “Twistin’ the Night Away”; “Nearer to Thee” or “Cupid”; “He’ll Make a Way” or “I Love You for Sentimental Reasons”; “Joy, Joy to My Soul” or “Change Gonna Come.”

  I could hear the church echo in Cooke’s silky voice. His soulful confession helped me understand what I saw at home, in church, and on the streets of South Side Chicago. I understood sorrow with “Chain Gang,” dreamed of giddy love with “Cupid,” and enjoyed finger-popping fun with “Twistin’ the Night Away.” Listening to Sam Cooke’s music wasn’t enough for Mom, though. She wanted to make sure I truly understood his ability to manipulate lyrics and command each genre—no matter if it was a bluesy ballad, soul-felt Gospel, raw rock and roll, or funky rhythm and blues.

  “Hear him bend that note, baby,” she would say. “That’s his specialty. Singers are like great chefs. They got their specialties. Some can bake pies. Some can fry chicken. You’ll find your specialty, sweetheart, and when you do, the minute you open your mouth to sing, folks will know it’s you. Meanwhile, listen to the chefs. Learn their recipes.”

  My mother considered Stevie Wonder a master chef. The first Stevie song I learned was “Fingertips.” When I got older, she took Stevie’s “Master Blaster” cut and taught me how to memorize every last lick, every breath, every riff. She’d place a nickel on the record player’s needle to slow down the revolutions so the runs could go really slow, so I could learn them and get them down pat.

  Joann Kelly and Stevie Wonder’s mother, Lula Mae Hardaway, had a lot in common. Lula Mae also recognized her son’s musical gifts at an early age and nurtured his genius. Stevie was barely a teen when his mother heard him repeating just a slice of a lyric: “Here I am, baby. .. Here I am, baby.” It was Lula Mae who supplied the hook: “Signed, sealed, delivered. I’m yours.” Stevie’s mother was by his side when he signed with Motown in 1961, and she helped him write hit records such as “I Was Made to Love Her,” “You Met Your Match,” and “I Don’t Know Why I Love You.” Soon I was sounding more like Stevie than Stevie . ..

  Same was true with Marvin Gaye. I could sing “What’s Goin’ On” or “Let’s Get It On” with that Marvin-like attitude—mellow but intense. I could fix my voice like Donny Hathaway. Mom made sure I knew the songs of the older cats like Jackie Wilson and Ray Charles. At Christmas time, it was all about Nat King Cole.

  I was born into the perfect musical storm. Everything that Mom loved I loved, from Billie Holiday to Dinah Washington to Aretha. I soaked up everything she had soaked up. She loved Frankie Lymon and the Teenagers, but when Michael and his brothers came out with “ABC” and “I Want You Back,” Mom was loving that just as much. When it came to music, the woman had no prejudices.

  Her musical history became my history. Like everyone else in the 'hood, when we saw a new history in the making, we jumped on board that musical change. When the Sugar Hill Gang started singin’ about “a hip-hop the hippie the hippie to the hip-hop, you don’t stop” in “Rapper’s Delight,” we were euphoric. Those early jams—Kurtis Blow’s 1980 hit, “The Breaks,” which was the first certified gold rap record, and Grandmaster Flash and the Furious Five’s 1982 game changer, “The Message,” which is regarded as one of the greatest songs in hip-hop history—had us young kids dancing just as wild and free as when Mom and them were dancing to James Brown.

  Like Tarzan in the jungle learning how to talk to the animals and swing from vine to vine, I learned to talk to music; I learned to swing from one musical vine to another. I heard every sound there was to hear, and I could make every sound that I heard. I grew up in a place on the planet where music—beautiful music, God’s music, the people’s music, my mother’s music—spoke to me every minute of every day.

  “You got that gift, boy,” my mother said. “You got that talent.”

  But how could a talented person have such a terrible time with simple reading? Didn’t that prove that something was wrong? Wasn’t that something I had to hide from the world?

  And what about what was happening at the house behind my mother’s back? Were good little boys supposed to be doing the things that had been happening to me? Shouldn’t I have tried to stop those things? Shouldn’t I have stopped gazing at these women running around half-naked? Shouldn’t I have stopped taking Polaroids of people doing the nasty?

  On the Soulacoaster, a talented kid with too many secrets did his best just to hold on.

  DEVOTION

  One afternoon after school I was walking home, glad to be out of the classroom, when I heard a song blasting from our front porch. It was “Kung Fu Fighting.”

  That song always made me happy, and seeing Mom and Lucious on the front porch drinking their Millers, I could see they were getting happy, too. They were dancing and hugging like newlyweds, carr
ying on like they didn’t have a care in the world. But then Lucious said something to Mom that she didn’t like, and suddenly things started to change. Didn’t take much for things to change when Mom and Lucious were drinking.

  Now Mom was cussing out Lucious.

  Now Lucious was cussing her out.

  She said, “I ain’t gonna take that.”

  He said, “I ain’t gonna take that.”

  My mother ran in the house; he followed her. She screamed at him to get out of her kitchen. He said, “Screw you.” My little heart started beating ‘cause I was scared that something bad was gonna happen to her. But Joann Kelly was straight-up tough. The woman could take care of herself. She was out of the kitchen and back on the porch, Lucious close behind her.

  “Get outta my face!” Mom warned Lucious.

  “Kung Fu Fighting” was playing over and over again; the record was stuck.

  “I ain’t going nowhere, bitch!” yelled Lucious.

  She ran back in the house. When she came out again, she was holding a heavy glass mug.

  “Put a hand on me and I’ll fuck you up,” she threatened.

  “Who you gonna fuck up, bitch?” Lucious taunted before grabbing and twisting her arm.

  With her free arm, Joann Kelly whacked Lucious across the head. The mug split open and cut his forehead, blood gushing out everywhere. Lucious staggered, fell, passed out unconscious. My mother ran to him, screaming for me to call 911. A neighbor called the police.

  By the time the cops arrived, Lucious had come to.

  “What happened?” they asked.

  Lucious hesitated. I was shaking 'cause I thought they’d take my mother to jail.

  Lucious looked at the cops and said, “I drank a few too many and fell down the stairs.”

  “That’s all there is to it?” asked the cop.

  “That’s all there is to it,” said Lucious.