Kill 'Em and Leave

by James McBride

  It’s been a difficult road. Golfers need professional coaches, private golf courses, and practice times with tutors. Which means, of course, money, of which the struggling athlete has very little. Every cent he’s earned on odd jobs—cutting grass, selling golf gear—has gone to golf training. He’s getting old for the game. He knows it. But not too old. Not yet. Law school, maybe grad school—that’s down the road, that’s in his future. He knows that too. Why? Because he’s a Brown. He knows that education is everything. But for now, he likes this dream.

  He holds his club at his side as he peers at the shot he just made. “Golf is an honest game,” he says. “Either you can do it or you can’t. The ball rolls where you put it. You can’t magically make it go there. Hard work. That’s what this game is. That’s what Grandfather taught me.”

  He does the things Brown would have done. When Nafloyd Scott died at age eighty, in 2015, and Scott’s family was short on funds to bury him, William Brown was one of those who stepped forward to help pay for Scott’s funeral. He speaks the way Brown wishes he could’ve talked. “You speak the language,” Brown told him. And he looks the way Brown probably wishes he could have looked: a tall, cool, almond brown. He’s a strikingly handsome young man. And he plays the game the way Brown would have. Fair. And hard. He could, if he wanted, walk over to that nice shot and putt the ball right into the hole. Ten feet he can do with his eyes closed. He can putt with the big boys most days. But he’s here today to work on his long game. The other golfers in this park are mostly amateurs, making shots to look good. William is at this public golf course to work.

  He lines up another ball. The wind blows. He waits until it stops. He brings the club back and sends it forward with a powerful whack!

  The ball goes high, high, even higher than the first one. And as you follow it, high into the Georgia sky, you see the dream again…there it is….

  In 1955, my parents founded a church called New Brown Memorial Baptist Church. It’s at 609 Clinton Street in Brooklyn, in the Red Hook housing projects where I was born. It was in New Brown that I first heard an organ swing. The lady who swung that organ was Sister Helen Lee.

  The first time I heard Mrs. Lee play was the first time I actually saw someone read music. I couldn’t have been older than seven or eight. The act of reading notes on a page seemed so impressive. What’s more, if someone in church stood up to testify—to tell about the good that God had done for them—and began to sing, Sister Lee would close her music book and just play along with them. She operated that organ as if it was a spaceship. She pulled knobs. She mashed buttons. She worked pedals. She changed its sound. She swung like crazy. Every quarter note was swinging while her feet danced on those pedals and her hands flew over the keys.

  I got married in that church in 1991. I still have a picture of Sister Lee at my wedding, sitting in the sanctuary, smiling. She was a fabulous musician, and a wonderful friend to everyone in the church, including my mother. She was a firm woman. She didn’t make small talk. She said what she felt. The kids in her children’s choir used to think she was hard on them, because she was. She wanted them on time. And prepared. She didn’t tolerate excuses. She came to every service on time and ready to play, and she expected them to follow suit in their own lives. She told one of them, “If I didn’t care about you at all, I wouldn’t say a word.” They loved her.

  She was the consummate professional, who played organ in that church for more than fifty years, always showing up on time in rain, snow, or sleet, to play at hundreds of funerals and services. She got sick in 2009 but still came to church every Sunday. At New Brown, Sister Lee was never, ever, short for a ride—to church or anywhere else. That same year, the longtime minister of the church died and was replaced briefly by a rascal who decided he didn’t need an old organist in his church. He wanted the new gospel music—the kind that sounds like every other song you just heard. He played CDs in the church service and even sold a few out of the trunk of his car. They tell me he placed Sister Lee and her mighty organ in a corner behind the pulpit.

  I got word of all this and went to see her in a Brooklyn hospital in the summer of 2011. She was pretty ill. It was the first time in my life, in more than fifty years of knowing her, that I had ever seen Sister Helen Lee without her wig. That’s a big thing for the older generation of black women in church, to be seen without their wig—it’s like being seen without clothes. James Brown was the same way. He’d sit under a hair dryer for three hours before he let anyone outside his circle see him. But Sister Lee was glad to see me. I brought her some chocolate cake. “I know you’re not supposed to eat this,” I said.

  “Get me a fork,” she said.

  We laughed and ate cake, and I asked her about music. She talked about songs, and approach, about growing up in Fonde, Kentucky, near the Tennessee border, how her parents paid a neighbor twenty-five cents to teach her, and how that teacher talked about quarter notes—how important they are and how to swing them, the use of triplet octaves in your right hand at the very top of the keyboard for drama and emphasis; how to play the bottom part of the piano to add rhythm to the music, because when she was a child, her church didn’t have a drummer. The congregation clapping their hands and stomping their feet were the drummer; the pianist’s left hand added rhythm and bass so you didn’t really need a drummer. I had never talked about music with Sister Lee before, but I was smart enough by then to know, at that moment, that she was giving me something special. I would never, from that day to this, hear much more of her style of playing. With the exception of a few young masters like the late Moses Hogan of New Orleans, Joseph Joubert and Shelton Becton of New York, and Fred Nelson III of Chicago, who today conducts for Aretha Franklin, I personally don’t know many pianists today who can play like that. I’m sure there are a few. But a lot of American church music has become like Broadway shows, all cowboy hat and no cowboy, lots of lights and sound, the drummers basically conducting the thing from beginning to end, with massive choirs hollering lyrics you can’t understand. It’s a lot of puff and smoke. That old-time gospel swing, played by musicians like Sister Lee who, when the spirit would hit her, would close her eyes, throw back her head, and lift those old spirituals toward Heaven something fierce, they’re disappearing.

  Shortly after that, on August 11, 2011, Sister Lee died.

  New Brown nearly fell apart then. It was a bad time. But the church righted itself, thank God, and tossed that scoundrel preacher that same month and got a good, strong, intelligent minister who everyone loves. And slowly the church began to come back.

  I started a music program there for kids from the housing projects in Sister Lee’s memory. We’ve been meeting every Thursday night going on three years. The kids are ages eight to fourteen. We started with fifteen kids playing plastic buckets with drumsticks. I teach piano and music history, and added a second teacher, a fellow Oberlin alumnus.

  For the music-history portion of our class I downloaded twenty-five artists on my iPad. I have it set up so you just hit a number button and an artist plays: for example, Maria Callas is number 3, Ennio Morricone is 7, John Coltrane is 4, John Lee Hooker is 9, and, of course, James Brown has a number. He’s button number 14 on my list.

  It’s tough and involved, teaching kids after school, when they’re hungry and tired, and it takes a lot—dedicated parents, patience, pianos at home for the kids. It’s a headache, and at times, there’s been some heartache. I have one student, a beautiful African American girl, eleven, who lost both her parents in the last five years. I played her father’s funeral two months ago. He was a wonderful father, Vincent Joyner was. When I first organized my program three years ago, Vincent was the only father there. About two weeks before he died, Mrs. Vivian Miles, who helped me start the music program, who often picked up the kids and brought them to church and sometimes even kept them overnight, she died. These were special people. And those were heavy losses.

  Sometimes I feel overwhelmed by the whole bit. The music pr
ogram feels like an exercise in shouting; the repetitiveness, the expense, the banging away at discipline that requires patience and tedious practice is frustrating—for the kids and for me—in a world where they can conjure up 3D wizardry on a twenty-dollar cellphone in seconds. I force them to listen to music. I show them how much I love it, and wonder if it rubs off. Sometimes during lessons I get so tired of hammering away at scales and harmony, I turn off the pianos, dim the lights, pass out cookies, and go straight to a music-history quiz. I pull out my iPad and announce, “The winner gets three dollars.” And the kids shut up and say, “Let’s go!” They’re ready to make that money. I start punching up various selections.

  I play song number 3 (Maria Callas) and the yells come from everywhere, all guesses.

  “Rosetta Tharpe!”

  “Celia Cruz!”

  “Nope, nope, nope…” I say. “Quit guessing. You’re a long way off.”

  I play the next song, number 9 (John Lee Hooker).

  “B.B. King!”

  “Rubén Blades!”

  “Willie Colón!”

  “Nope. Nope. Nope,” I say. “Forget it. Y’all are terrible.”

  But there’s no guessing when I play song number 14. Their hands shoot up. Their faces light up. They hear hollering. They hear the scream. They hear the groove. They hear the tightness. And you say to yourself, They will remember him. He will make them remember him. He’s hollering from the back of the bus of history, just so they’ll know who he is. So Vanessa will know him. And Cecil. And Maddy. And Laura. And Helen. And even little Ni Ni and the twins Malcolm and Malik. And in knowing who he is, maybe they will one day know who they are.

  And in that moment, just in that moment, as they holler his name, all is right in the world.

  “James Brown!”

  Dedicated to Professor Logan and his late wife, Bettye

  This book could not have been completed without many people, and I’d like to thank them all. But I can’t remember them all. Here’s the ones I can remember:

  I remember Armsted Christian, an angel on earth, whose friendship and encouragement inspired all who knew him. I remember and thank my research team, of course: especially Faith Briggs, whose deep talent and sweat is all over these pages, and who created the chapter summaries. Also thanks to Georgette Baker and Margaret Saunders for their solid reporting, and Monica Burton for hours of transcribing.

  The musicians. Especially Alfred “Pee Wee” Ellis and Fred Wesley, who created more of James Brown’s sound than any two musicians in the world. Thanks to their respective wives as well: Charlotte Crofton-Sleigh and Gwendlyn Wesley.

  Thanks to William Forlando Brown, who first invited me to the party, and his dad, Terry Brown, and Dahlia Brown, altogether a family of grace and courage. Thanks to Sue and Henry Summer for their tireless fight on behalf of needy children of South Carolina. Deepest gratitude to Mrs. Velma Warren Brown, and Mrs. Emma Austin, whose prayers and friendship have enriched my life, and whom I will never forget.

  Thanks to my sister Helen McBride Richter and brother-in-law Dr. Gary Richter, for all their loving hospitality. A nod of respect and gratitude to David and Maggie Cannon, and to Buddy and Denise Dallas, for their courage, and willingness to carry on what James Brown asked them to.

  A special thanks to Mr. Charles Bobbit and his dearly departed wife, Ruth Bobbit, for their insight and kindness.

  I am grateful to the United House of Prayer of Augusta; James and David Neal of Toccoa, Georgia; Joya Wesley of Greensboro, North Carolina; and Andre White of Atlanta.

  A special nod to the Reverend Al Sharpton for sharing his insights on James Brown.

  Thanks to Carol L. Waggoner-Angleton, special collections assistant at the Reese Library in Augusta, Christine Miller-Betts, executive director of the Lucy Craft Laney Museum of Black History, and Michelle R. Austin, manager of the Toccoa-Stephens County Public Library. Also my gratitude to George Wingard and the Savannah River Archaeological Program.

  Deep thanks to Edgar Brown of Blackville, South Carolina, who opened the door to Brown’s history, William Murrell & Associates of Augusta, and Mr. William F. and Sherly Guinyard of Guinyard & Sons Funeral Home in Barnwell, South Carolina.

  Thanks to Charles Reid of the C.A. Reid Sr. Memorial Funeral Home in Augusta and to his late father, Charles A. Reid, Sr., as well.

  Thanks to Tony Wilson, James Brown impersonator extraordinaire, and appraiser Tom Wells; also a deep thanks to Joe Thomas and the Thomas family, and a special thank-you to Ruth “Mutt” Tobin and the members of St. Peter church in Elko, South Carolina.

  Also to other Brown band members and “musical family,” I extend my thanks, including John “Jabo” Starks, manager Kathie Williams, Clyde Stubblefield, Nafloyd Scott, and the deeply talented Sweet Charles Sherrell and his entire Dutch family.

  Thanks to Greta Reid, Alan Leeds, Brenda Kelly, and violinist/musical director Richard Jones of Philadelphia, who, with Sylvia Medford, Marlon Jones, and Vivien Pitts, were James Brown’s first string section. Thanks to pianist and musical pioneer Geneva Woode of Cincinnati, Ohio, who began her long and impressive musical career as a studio backup singer with James Brown while still in high school.

  To Mrs. Iola Brooker and Perry Lee Wallace of Brooker’s Restaurant in Barnwell, South Carolina, I extend my gratitude. They were so hospitable and kind and I am grateful.

  Deep gratitude to CR Gaines of Barnwell, South Carolina; Shelleree Gaines of Barnwell, South Carolina; Desai Ewbanks, and Duane Ewbanks.

  I am deeply grateful to former Brown sidemen and trumpeters Joe Davis and Joe Dupars, as well as pianist George Caldwell, saxophonist Patience Higgins, drummers Damon Due White and Dwayne Broadnax, and my New York roommate of two decades, Bill Singer, saxophonist repairman extraordinaire, for their insights on James Brown and music in general.

  Deepest thanks to Howard L. Burchette of the Burchette Media Group for his priceless radio interviews of members of the James Brown world.

  Thanks to Jay Bender of the South Carolina Press Association, and a special thanks to my NYU Journalism Department colleagues Charles Seife and Pam Newkirk, whose insights into investigative reporting helped me through many a difficult moment in the reporting of this work. I also extend my gratitude to my Oberlin friends Chesley Maddox-Dorsey, bassist/composer Leon Lee Dorsey, and David Stull, former dean of the Oberlin Conservatory, who actually got this ball rolling.

  Thanks to the members and crew of my band: Trevor Exter, Keith Robinson, Showtyme Brooks, Adam Faulk, Jonathan Duckett, Henry Jordan, and Henry Tindal, for keeping the music alive.

  And finally, thanks to my inner circle, those who know me best: my agent Flip Brophy, who has minded me and kept me straight for decades; editor Cindy Spiegel, whose work on The Color of Water launched my literary career, and whose friendship and generosity of spirit I will remember the rest of my life; thanks to New Brown Memorial Baptist Church for their prayers and love, thanks to my siblings for always being there, and finally thanks to Azure, Jordan, and Nash McBride and my niece Kawren Scott-Logan for putting up with a busy father and uncle who, despite everything, still loves them to pieces.

  The greatest gift of all is love, and love is free.

  ARMSTED R. CHRISTIAN (May 20, 1951–January 4, 2016), a forever lasting voice of love

  James McBride

  Lambertville, New Jersey

  BY JAMES McBRIDE

  Fiction

  The Good Lord Bird

  Song Yet Sung

  Miracle at St. Anna

  Nonfiction

  The Color of Water

  Kill ’Em and Leave

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  JAMES MCBRIDE is an author, musician, and screenwriter. His memoir, The Color of Water (Riverhead), is an American literary classic that has been translated into more than sixteen languages. His novel The Good Lord Bird won the 2013 National Book Award for fiction. His novel Miracle at St. Anna became a 2008 Touchstone Disney film. His novel Song Yet Sung was the O
ne Book, One Maryland choice of 2010. He has written screenplays and teleplays for film icon Spike Lee (Miracle at St. Anna, Red Hook Summer) and television pioneer David Simon (Parting the Waters). McBride is a former staff writer for The News Journal (Wilmington, Delaware), The Boston Globe, People, and The Washington Post Style Section. His work has appeared in The New York Times, Rolling Stone, Essence, and National Geographic. He is the recipient of the 1997 Anisfield-Wolf Book Award.

  McBride holds several awards for his work as a musical theater composer, including the American Academy of Arts and Letters Richard Rodgers Award, the ASCAP Foundation Richard Rodgers New Horizons Award, and the American Music Theatre Festival’s Stephen Sondheim Award. He has written songs (music and lyrics) for Anita Baker, Grover Washington, Jr., Gary Burton, Silver Burdett music textbooks, and for the PBS television character Barney. He served as a saxophonist sideman with jazz legend Little Jimmy Scott. James was born and raised in New York City and attended New York City public schools. He studied at the Oberlin Conservatory of Music and holds a master’s degree in journalism from Columbia University. He was elected to the American Academy of Arts and Sciences in 2015, holds several honorary doctorates, and is currently a Distinguished Writer in Residence at the Arthur L. Carter Journalism Institute at New York University. McBride still tours with his Good Lord Bird band, playing gospel music.

  jamesmcbride.com

  Facebook.com/​JamesMcBrideAuthor

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