I
felt a different sort of conflicted when I sat in on some live music
later Friday in what I believe is the Republique neighborhood, just a stones
throw from the Bataclan. Now, don't you hate it when the performer on
stage is like, "Wave your hands in the air!" and you're like, "Dude, you
so have not earned my hand-waving, lighter-flicking, or response to
your call." But hey, what does it hurt to play along a bit, so you wave
your hands like you kinda sorta just don't care. And you say, "Awww yeah!"
but you know, not really. Well, I was faced with this dilemma of sorts.
It
all started out promising, with the sounds of a crisp horn and funky strings pulling me away from my guide-book recommended haunt and across the
street to the Fat Cat Bar. Turns out a hip-hop/funk band was playing.
The horn player was multi-instrumental, taking turns of the clarinet,
flute and saxophone. It's too much to say, "He was a revelation" or
such loftiness, but he was making good music. They dropped a loop of
"Float On" and he worked it out. The bass guitarist player was decent,
workmanlike.
So
you see, this was the problem. The vocalist was nothing special; his
style imitated funk hip-ness, but who am I to judge when 90% of hip hop
artists are just as guilty. Fake it till you make it, maybe? He was
aight, and I clapped supportively, not just for the band but for the idea
of live music. You know, kinda philosophically.
Now
see, if this were are a bigger space or if I was not already introduced
to the band during the break between sets, when the DJ played Grand
Puba, Tribe and DP's "It's Bigger Than Hip-Hop," I could have slunk away
a little bemused but without obligation. But see, well, I had just
been told, eagerly, if you like P-Funk you're gonna really like the next
set. Call your friends. Really? Many cues told me my American black
presence suggested to them my bona fides. For better or ill (you really
just have to see how it plays out in the instance). **** I shouldv'e
known it wasn't going to turn out well.
In the second set they invite one of the friends of the band. It guess he thought we was at least
a reincarnation of KC from KC and the Sunshine Band, but when he
started riffing, "Fat booty, fat booty, awww, FAT BOOTY!" I was like,
"Huh? What?" He'd shout it high, he'd growl it low. Then he'd be a
little manic, riffing at 78 when maybe 45 was appropriate. I wasn't
into it, but I hadn't yet made a decision on whether dude was, well,
garbage. But then he started a call and response; as far as I could
tell, English was a distant second language for the 3 or 4 people I had
spoken too.
"Do
you feel like moving that booty y'all? Say, hell yeah" The audience,
sans Stamper of Approval Kevin responds, "Hell yeah."
There was some dynamics beyond nationality and language that I don't
want to go into here, even if it would provide helpful context. But I
found myself not just not enjoying myself, but in a non-P Funk state of
funkiness.
So,
"Hell, no," I thought. And continue to think as the audience
obediently responded, "Hellll yeah," "Fat booty." or "Big, fat booty"
among less memorable touts. Under the circumstances, no co-sign from
me. You gets no props.
On
the other hand, is it possible I was being too harsh? Not everything
is a morality play, right? Or about race, no? And, oh yeah, also, did
the francophone audience even know what they were saying, I mean, even
if they did understand the words?
I
think this is my bottom line: I couldn't sing along, not because, ahem,
I don't approve of fat booties (like you know, "shake what you mama
gave you"). Ironically, on this front, hip hop has so devolved, from
Wrex-n-Effects to Juvenile to the Ying Yang Twins/the East Side Boyz/Lil
John to this, that well, in an odd way, the bar is really high for low, trifling, ish.
And I'll be honest and say under certain circumstances, I could
sing along to folks "with it" enough to strike a certain tone. Folks
like Q-tip, De La and Mos have certainly done so. And hell, he may not
all that funky, but KC would've got props.
___________
****While definitely not always the case, in my travels I've often been
the only black American male, and the comments and questions of the
welcoming folks who befriend me make clear that, at least per music and
movement, my black skin (and, a necessary complement for some, my
nationality) make me the arbiter of cool. Is he nodding his head? I've
been told conspiratorially by maybe the one real athlete on a coed
team, hey, you be the wide receiver, I'm gonna get the ball to you, but
they have no idea I can get open but it's 50-50 whether I catch the damn
ball. Let me state for the record, though, that basketball is
different. I usually defy heigt-based expectations. At least for a half.
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