Saturday, January 21, 2012

Passages


1. Etta James. It was the 80's. And headlining together down in the cellar of Larry Blake's on Telegraph Ave: Tracy Nelson and Etta James. Tracy Nelson, lead vocal of Mother Earth, a R&B artist, (who my sister worshiped and swore if reincarnated wanted to
not only play the piano like Nelson but be able to cover, Nelson's stunning Down So Low whose album, Living with the Animals, wearing thin on the grooves, jarred the
neighbors above us and next door...and Etta. Dream team. There was sawdust on the floor; the cellar was stuffy and packed. And Jesus. Cigarette smoke, the surgeon general's nightmare, circulated and hung over us in hazy clouds. Glasses were clinking, people steeped in whatever were talking,dive club BS...Tracy Nelson finished her set just before mid-night; she was spectacular. 'Down so Low' had drained me. Kicked my ass. I was somewhere on another planet when Etta took the stage. From the moment the lyrics to her first song took flight, to her final notes, she was ethereal. R&B ethereal. I was sitting 10 feet from the platform; beads of sweat poured off her. But she was cool. Sassy. Raunchy. And knocked my socks off. Etta James. Six grammy's. 17 Blues Music awards. 1936-2012.

2. My mother died recently. This time it was different. I was in college when my father, 45, had a fatal heart attack. I don't remember much of those circumstances at all. It's a blur. Uncles and aunts gathered at the house. Pink dim sum boxes piled on tables. Lots of hard liquor being drained. My brother reminded me that it was raining at the cemetery. Sedated mother. Hysterical grandmother. Like so many of my friends before me (especially this past year) the death of the last parent is distinct. Unfamiliar. Separate from the first. The business of death is stacked before you. Siblings close rank. Last requests. Plot of land. Services. Obit. Dismantling of possessions. G'damn education on the fly. Inheritance becomes generational. We become what came before. I gave the eulogy. My mother loved Akaka Falls. Alyce. 1925-2011

1 comment:

  1. 1. I'm sorry for your loss and 2. Lovely.

    ReplyDelete