He gave them to his partner, who returned to their car. You’d think he would have at least had the courtesy to say something like “This will only take a few minutes”—or, better yet, explain why we were stopped—but, of course, he didn’t.
After a few minutes, the other trooper returned. “They check out okay,” he grumbled, almost sounding disappointed that my mother wasn’t driving a stolen car and that neither one of her sons had an outstanding warrant.
The thin one’s face became flushed; he was embarrassed. But he tried to mask it with a very fake smile. He trudged back over to the driver’s side and handed everything back to my mother. “Uh, I think that will be it. You can go.”
She dropped it all in her lap. “Thank you. Have a good night.” As he shuffled away, she rolled up her window. When we were back on the road, she frowned: “Officer Giardello.”
I giggled as I passed my brother’s ID to him. “Did you memorize his number, too?” I asked. I knew she had. I pulled down the overhead compartment above my seat and retrieved the emergency pen and paper.
She grinned. She recited it. I wrote it down.
Adam huffed. “It’s a good thing you didn’t have that knapsack. They would’ve wanted to search it.” Indeed. And because of that “suspicious-looking bag” that I was no doubt “trying to conceal,” they could argue they had “probable cause” to have all of us get out of the car and strip it. My mother has filed four complaints with the New Jersey State Police (including one over the incident with Anderson, although Anderson didn’t want her to) and reported them all to the ACLU. If they ever decide to take on this cause (contrary to Caucasian consensus, these aren’t just “isolated incidents”), she’ll be the first to sign on to a class-action lawsuit and testify at congressional hearings.
The remainder of our journey was an uneventful one. When we got back to Longwood, we were treated to a delicious Sunday dinner prepared by Anderson: steak and garlic potatoes, glazed peas and carrots, and banana pudding for dessert. After the meal, my mother took a nap (she had to do the midnight shift; she’s a nurse). Adam went to see Lynette, who lives in Newark. Instead of heading back to Brooklyn, I planned to stay the night in my old room. So I helped Anderson clean the kitchen.
We were loading the dishwasher when I broke our silence. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Sure.”
“Does … does it bother you that we go to see my father each year?”
“No,” he nonchalantly replied. “Why would it?”
“Well … I guess … most second husbands wouldn’t be so … so accepting of something like that.”
“I guess I’m not like most second husbands.”
“But do you feel … left out because we visit him each year?”
“No. You all were already a family before I came along and you didn’t stop being that family when I did. So I believe it’s important for you all to have … a reunion each year. I’d never tell your mother she can’t have it.” He nodded toward the living room. “Do you know why your father’s picture sits on the mantel above the fireplace?” It’s next to their wedding photo (they’ll be celebrating twelve years this August).
“Yeah—’cause you don’t want a frying pan upside your head.” I snickered.
He chuckled. “No. It’s because I wanted it there.”
“You … wanted it there?”
“Yes, I did.”
“Why?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
I stated what I thought was the obvious. “Because it’s her first husband.”
“Well, that’s exactly why it’s there. I don’t have to tell you how much your mother loved your father … how much she still loves him. Her love for him didn’t die when he did. And she has living proof of that love: you and your brother. So I can’t expect her to leave him in a photo album, store that album in a trunk in the attic, and just forget about him. If she could just put him away like that, she could do the same with me.”
Hmm … jood point.
“I couldn’t love or fall in love with a woman like that, and that’s not the kind of woman I love and fell in love with. So how could I be that kind of man? What kind of man would I be if I expected her to deny her past?”
“You wouldn’t be.”
“I know.”
We smiled.
“Let me ask you a question,” he said.
“Okay.”
He seemed to be searching for the right words. “Do you think your father would be happy with how I’ve taken care of your mother, you, and your brother?”
I was taken aback. “Why do you ask that?”
“I … I just wonder sometimes.”
“Yes. I’m sure he is happy that she found someone like you …” I then realized why he asked that—and whose opinion about his role as a husband and guardian he really wanted. “And I am happy she found someone like you,” I added.
“You are?”
“Of course. You’ve made her very happy. And if she’s happy, I’m happy. You’ve also been a great stepfather.”
He was startled by that admission. “I … I have?”
“Yes, you have.”
He wasn’t convinced. “That I don’t know about.”
“Why?”
“I didn’t know what being a father was supposed to be like. Ha, I still don’t know. With you and your brother, half the time I didn’t know what to say or do. The other half I just let your mother handle things.”
“Well, they must’ve been the right things to do. If you did the wrong things, we wouldn’t have any type of relationship.”
He considered that, then sighed. “I guess I was always afraid that … you two would hate me for trying to fill your father’s shoes.”
“Being our stepfather didn’t mean you had to fill our father’s shoes. It meant you had to be Anderson and you were. And that was always good enough.”
He smiled. “Uh … don’t you mean jood?”
I laughed. “Yeah.”
“Thanks, Mitch. I appreciate you telling me that. It’s jood to hear.” He held out his hand. I shook it. We simultaneously pulled each other closer and embraced.
I exhaled deeply in his arms. “You’re more than welcome.”
13
A SONG FOR YOU
“So, Mitchell … you ready?”
I was at the Hit Factory, one of the premier recording studios in the world, to lay down vocals on a track for Kevron, a twenty-three-year-old out of the Cabrini Green projects in Chicago who is being trumpeted as the new R. Kelly. Well, at least that’s how he views himself. He doesn’t have R. Kelly’s songwriting talent or pipes. But he and MCA, his record label, are smart enough to recognize a winning formula when they see it. Thanks to Kelly (and groups like Jodeci), a new brand of Black male vocalist has emerged (some would say submerged) on the scene: harmonizin’ homiez. New jack swing has given way to new gangsta swing, with singers taking on a more thuggish exterior. Some are throwing on football and basketball jerseys, baggy jeans and overalls, Timbs, do-rags, and striking that cool pose in order to compete with and complement their hip-hop contemporaries. Just a few years ago, Ralph Tresvant was extolling the virtue of “Sensitivity” in a man; today, it’s all about the Bump ’n Grind. Getting next to her is not the objective now; getting all up inside of her is. As a result, old school has really become old: veterans like Jeffrey Osborne, Teddy Pendergrass, Peabo Bryson, and Freddie Jackson can’t get a record deal, have found themselves on nondescript labels that have little to no clout in the industry, or have gone the soundtrack route (be it movie themes, television series, or commercial jingles). Even Luther’s catching flak: he’s still cranking out platinum albums (I contributed to his last one, Songs), but his sound has been dismissed as wilted and wimpy, just a little too middle-classish.
With less of an emphasis on romance and more on raunch, the door was busted wide open for those with limited skills to croak and crack their way onto the charts—like Kevron. Legend has it he
first tried his hand at rapping, but was apparently booed off more than one stage in his ’hood. So he switched genres but kept the ghetto gear. He hooked up with an indie called Inner City Soundz and produced a couple of hits with the not-so-subtle titles “Swimmin’ in Your Sea” and “Lick You All Over.” Both videos were shot in black-and-white and cost less than $25,000 each—and it shows. The direction is sloppy, the lighting too dark, and the hoochies look like real dimestore hookers he pulled off their corners for a few hours. Yet despite this (or probably because of it), they became favorites on both BET and MTV. Add his faithful yet uninspired cover of the Isley Brothers’ “Between the Sheets” (which continues to receive heavy play on Quiet Storm/Midnite Luv stations), and it’s not hard to see why his debut, Kev’s Freak Show, went triple platinum. In today’s rap-saturated market, that’s no small feat for a Black male singer, and the big white wigs took notice: after a bidding war, he signed a three-album deal for a reported $8 million, which included a $500,000-cash signing bonus.
I still find it hard to swallow that he’s a better singer than a rapper: he sounds like someone is trying to choke the song out of him. He tries to disguise his gurgling by pulling a Barry White, speaking many of the lyrics in that bass-boomin’ bedroom voice, but even there you know he’s fakin’ it because he has to. So why has he gotten over? His looks. In rap, being a pretty boy wouldn’t score him points, but in R&B it does. So the ladies (and men) swoon even though he can’t croon.
Neither his vocals (or lack thereof) nor his appearance are what he’s most famous for. Not since the days of Run-DMC, Slick Rick, and Salt-N-Pepa has an artist adorned himself with so much jewelry. He’s always draped in gold rings, gold ropes, gold watches, gold bracelets, gold caps, gold anklets (which he wants you to see by having his left pant leg rolled up a few inches below his knee), and one gold earring (two would certainly get folks to talkin’ … not that they aren’t already).
And tonight was no different. The producer, Bryant Bledsoe, introduced us. He was a big man—a very big man. We’re talkin’ Shaq-Attack Big. Stocky and stately, he was Snicker-bar brown and wore black horn-rim glasses. He could’ve been Kevron’s bodyguard. Kevron’s real bodyguard—a wide brutha just as tall as Bryant who wore a permanent scowl on his scarred face (had he been slashed?)—blocked my path as I attempted to enter the room.
“Can I help you?” he snarled.
Bryant interjected. “It’s all right, Mack. He’s the session singer.”
“Mack” moved to the side but never took his eyes off me.
They both rose as I approached.
Bryant and I did the “brotha shakembrace” thing. “Good to meet you, Mitchell.”
“Same here.”
“Mitchell Crawford, this is Kevron. Kev, Mitchell.”
“Good ta meetcha, brotha.” Kevron smiled, exposing a top row of gold as he halfheartedly shook my hand, opting instead to encase me in his left arm.
“You, too.”
Kevron was even more gorgeous in person: six feet tall, skin the color of a Planters peanut, an oval face, light brown eyes that sat far below his square forehead and an inch above his plump cheeks, a perfectly cut trail-line-thin beard and goatee, very thick lips that glistened like his bald head (which a gold-and-black bandanna was tied around), and a very pumped-up bod (the Jordan jersey accented his buff chest and arms, which were both decorated with tattoos: his name on the left and luva boyee on the right). The loveliest features, however, were that huge ass (we’re talkin’ two halves of a watermelon attached to his backside, okay?) and that very visible bulge (which grew as we hugged). Both could barely be contained in his red “snap-off” sweatpants (the snaps traveled from the bottom cuff up to the waist); those trousers were packin’ so much in I was just waitin’ (and anticipatin’) for those top buttons to pop open and off. And he smelled heavenly: the sweet aroma penetrated my nostrils like a cough drop. But all that jewelry—two rings on each finger except his thumbs, a watch on each wrist, a dozen chains around his neck, the lone ranger in his left earlobe, and a few anklets—was unattractive and distracting. This is the reason he has such a hulking hunchback for a bodyguard.
Bryant shuffled together some papers on the table. “I’ll be right back. I’ll call upstairs to make sure things are all set.” He scooted out of the room.
Kevron and I smiled at each other and turned away as if we were shy students meeting on the first day of school. There was a very awkward moment of silence.
“Yo, you want somethin’ ta drink?” Kevron asked.
“Uh, some water would be fine.”
He turned to his bodyguard. “Yo, Mack. Get tha brotha some beverage.”
Mack trounced out of the room, causing pictures on the walls to shift.
“Yo, I wanna thank ya fuh doin’ this on such short notice.” He gestured with his hands.
“Sure.”
“You listen ta my music?”
I wanted so bad to say, You call what you make music? but restrained myself. “Yes, I do.”
He assumed the homie stance: upper body bent back and slightly to the right, right leg forward, left hand under his right arm, and his right hand under his chin. “Got a fav’rite cut?”
You know I didn’t have one, but just to make him happy (and not get fired from this gig) … “You’re Gonna Love What I Got.” I would’ve said “Ass Bonanza,” Pooquie’s fave (he loves to be plowed as it’s played), but knew that could lead to a place we didn’t need to travel to …
“Ah … that’s tha dopest cut on that CD. I wanted them ta release it, but you know how da Man is: it’s his way or tha fuckin’ highway.”
He then started croaking and cracking it—which made me cringe. It’s one thing to hear him on CD—it’s quite another to hear him in person. He sounds worse in the flesh. (At least he has the sense to know he cannot sing in public—his only “live” musical performance has been on Showtime at the Apollo, and he talked through both songs. But given the buildup he’s about to receive, he’ll have to take some voice lessons fast.)
After the first verse, he warbled to the chorus: “I’m gonna swing it, tha way you want it, I’m gonna bring it, tha way you want it, don’t worry, bay-bay, you’re gonna love what I got.” Hmm … in the song, he doesn’t emphasize you or you’re and actually says, “Girl, you’re gonna love what I got.” Was the man trying to serenade me?
If so, it wasn’t working. But it was working for him: the bulge I didn’t think could get any larger or longer did.
Thank God both Mack and Bryant returned. Kevron’s great eye candy and the idea of being hit on by a celebrity like him was flattering, but I wouldn’t have been able to stand one more bad note.
As Mack handed me a bottle of Evian, Bryant clapped his hands. “Well, gents, it’s time to get buzy.”
We made our way through a maze of a hallway, zigzagging so much I just knew we were lost, until we arrived at the control room.
As Mack stood guard outside and Kevron stared me down, Bryant briefed me on the song. It was called “All the Man You Need.” Immediately I thought it would be a variation on Whitney’s hit (which Luther had just recorded), but it wasn’t. A smoky ballad, it contains an interpolation of Bobby Brown’s “Rock with You,” so I’m sure all those hip-hopsters will warm up to it. But considering some of the other songs Kevron’s done, this one was tame when it came to sexually suggestive lyrics.
The chorus:
Come on girl
I’ll take the lead
Let me show you
that I’m all the man you need
Come on girl
Your hunger I’ll feed
just let Kev be
all the man you need
And the bridge:
I promise
it’ll be an unbelievable night
I promise
you’ll want it over and over again
for the rest of your life
Tantalizing yet tasteful, it was very similar to Boyz II Men’
s “I’ll Make Love to You” in tone and flavor. But, once again, it has to be all about Kev: I’d bet my session check that the songwriter didn’t pen it for him.
Because it wasn’t as sexually explicit as his other tunes, Bryant believed “All the Man You Need” needed, as he put it, “a softer anchor.” He had already recorded it with two of his regular female session singers but felt they were a bit too soft. So he called up Jimmy Newland, the brother who “discovered” me when I performed Stevie’s “You & I” at Babyface and B.D.’s wedding last year. Jimmy raved about my range and said he could get me some session work; as far as Pooquie was concerned, Jimmy really wanted to do some session work on me, and not the singin’ kind. But he’s never made a move on me and has come through with those moonlighting jobs with folks like Will Downing, Pebbles, Regina Belle, Faith Evans, and Phyllis Hyman (it would be one of the last songs she recorded before committing suicide). Both Bryant and Jimmy graduated from Howard in ’88 with degrees in music management, and Bryant knew that Jimmy would be able to locate a singer whose voice would be recognized as male but had “a little feminine flair to it”—and who would come quick and cheap (figuratively speaking, of course). And after years of screaming along with Aretha, Chaka, and Patti, I fit the bill.
After listening to the track twice (as usual, Kevron croaks and cracks up a storm), doing an a cappella run-through and an instrumental-track sing-along, Bryant taped me. I suggested that instead of repeating the entire chorus at the end, I could riff off of “All the man you need,” particularly since Kev was bad-libbing “I’ll take the lead” and “Your hunger I’ll feed.” They appreciated the change.
I got comfortable in the studio, sitting on a stool. I put on the headphones. I took a very deep breath. “I’m ready.”
Bryant did a countdown. “Five, four, three, two, one …” He pointed to me.
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