The Lost Treasures of R&B

by Nelson George

  “That’s not a plan. That’s just bad behavior.”

  “Maybe,” Edge said, no longer amused. “Listen, no rush on this, but just don’t do nothing. You feel me?”

  “Gotcha. But how do I get a billionaire lady to talk to me?”

  “Stay tuned,” the old man said, and clicked off.

  A lean, bohemian black man, wearing a colorful wool cap on his head and black frames on his face, entered, walked over to the hostess D had been watching, and kissed her.

  He’d eaten a salad and was finishing his grilled chicken when an e-mail buzzed on his BlackBerry. It was Faith Newman’s office inquiring if D was available to meet the next day at four p.m.

  I’M COMING OUT

  D had expected the big corporate runaround. Lots of waiting and then filling out paperwork for some grim-faced drone across a desk in a room with harsh lighting in a building somewhere in Manhattan. Instead, he found himself way out in deep Bushwick, a place this native Brooklynite had rarely visited. In his mind, Bushwick was a hood filled with Puerto Ricans, cheap frame houses, and decaying factory buildings.

  The town car rolled north on Bedford from Prospect Heights and made a right on Flushing, passing through another large Hassidic enclave that gave way to the elevated subway on Broadway and an area that still reflected D’s old-school vision of the hood (Latin takeout, kids in hoodies, public housing) before shifting to warehouses converted into lofts.

  The new white residents of Bushwick, most in their late twenties and early thirties, were strolling around, looking more authentically hipster than the folks who now resided in Williamsburg. D saw yoga studios and art galleries, rental trucks unloading film equipment, and pedestrians clutching Samsung smartphones like reunited lovers.

  D was dropped off across the street from a nondescript gray four-story building with a gourmet coffee shop on the ground floor. He thought it looked like home base to roomy artists’ lofts but not necessarily the office of a multibillion-dollar operation.

  He pressed the third-floor buzzer by the steel door where a tab read, Nightbirds, the name of Labelle’s classic 1974 LP. A camera light flashed on, a computerized voice asked his name, he replied, and the door opened. A man with a buzz cut, goatee, and a heavyweight’s build sat on a stool behind a table with a tablet and phone on top. He wore a tight-fitting blue vintage blazer and a lovely beige shirt. On the wall behind him was a blowup of the cover of Nightbirds. He looked up and said, “You’re good. The elevator’s out, so use the stairs.”

  The staircase was worn, but not dirty, with old-school R&B posters hanging in frames that had been artfully distressed. The Shirelles at the Apollo. Labelle headlining the Met. Diana Ross & the Supremes at the Copacabana. Diana Ross at Radio City. The acts on the wall were all female and the posters grew more gaudy with each ensuing decade. Plus, there were cameras everywhere.

  On the third-floor landing there was a psychedelic Eyrkah Badu poster near a stylized black, white, and red image of Janelle Monáe. Another door read, Nightbirds, and D passed through it into a long room with walls painted a warm rust color, the ceiling a vibrant azure—the colors of a Mumbai alley, not a Bushwick loft.

  The staff was standard-issue yuppified twenty-first-century hipster, though clearly there was someone in management with a very particular sensibility. Manjit, a dark Indian woman with a highly professional smile, offered him bottled water and a seat on an old-school park bench painted emerald green. D sat there for about fifteen minutes before Manjit reappeared and escorted him past rows of folks at computers to an office with a pane of frozen glass facing the larger room.

  On the other side of the glass was a large space with the same color scheme as the outer office but furnished like a living room. Coffee table, jars of nuts and candy, an old Motorola hi-fi. From this side of the glass you gazed at all the tech minions toiling in a nicely appointed digital sweatshop.

  Sitting on a long comfy sofa along the wall facing Flushing Avenue was Faith Newman, a stocky blonde dressed like a Girls extra save her rather glamorous, bejeweled Wayfarer glasses. It was a touch of excess that made D think the dour outfit that surrounded it was actually a costume and the glasses revealed who Faith really was (or wanted to be).

  “D Hunter,” she said, standing up, “so glad you could take the time to come meet with me.”

  He’d never had a billionaire kiss his ass before. “If you say so,” he replied with a smile. “I’d say it was the other way around.”

  She guided him to a seat on the sofa. D found Faith’s iridescent frames distracting. “You just came off tour with Night. How is he sounding these days?”

  “Very strong. Probably not exactly as you might remember him. He’s evolved.”

  “But still soulful?”

  “Very soulful.”

  “I saw him seven or eight times back when his first album came out,” she said pleasantly.

  “Whoa, you are a very serious fan.”

  “Very serious. I love R&B.”

  “The walk up the stairway is like an R&B history lesson,” he said.

  “You were friends with the historian Dwayne Robinson, weren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” he said, surprised. “He was a real mentor to me.”

  “I have autographed copies of all his books. The Relentless Beat is like my Bible. Believe me, I’d rather have been Stevie Wonder than Bill Gates.”

  D chuckled, not sure if she was being patronizing or not. He waited for her next move, which was: “So, what happened with your company?”

  “We had a good run,” he said, feeling a bit anxious. “But when the record business went south, a lot of my usual vendors—record labels, managers—had to cut their budgets. And the business that remained just got silly. So many of the youngsters that pass for rap stars these days—well, they and their friends are reckless, and reckless can lead to bloodshed. It’s one thing to want to be secure. Its another to walk into fire using gasoline for cologne.”

  “You talk like a songwriter, D.”

  “Ha, maybe in a previous life,” D said, slightly flattered. “In this one I’m just a big man with big hands. If there was music in these fingers it got beat out of them years ago.”

  “Have you beaten many people, D?”

  “No,” he answered firmly, then added, “but I have grabbed a few folks and shook the hell out of them.”

  “Are you always this funny?”

  “I wish. Job interviews make me nervous. I probably say too much.”

  “No. You are doing fine. The truth is, I don’t need more security. I have a very expensive company on retainer. But whenever Michael Archer sends me a recommendation I take it seriously. I looked at your résumé and saw you had a long professional relationship with someone I want to do business with.”

  “You want me to help you in business? Okay, how could I possibly do that?”

  “I want you to introduce me to Night.”

  “That’s it? Meeting Night?”

  “Can you arrange that?”

  “I think so. I know you sing and write songs. He’ll want to hear some of your music first.”

  An anxious expression filled her face. “Oh, don’t tell him I want to meet about my music. No. Tell him it’s about helping him build up his social network and online presence. I’d be embarrassed to have him hear me sing. I’m not ready for that.”

  “So you wanna meet under false pretenses?” D suddenly felt in control.

  “No. I mean I can help him in a number of ways. I’m definitely a fan.”

  “Maybe one day you’ll do a duet.”

  “Please do not condescend to me. I don’t respond well to that.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Whatever your intention, that was the effect.” Faith Newman clearly had an edge and D’s comment made her flash the blade.

  “Won’t happen again. So, should I hit your secretary when I have it hooked up with Night?”

  “No. Text me directly.” Faith pulled o
ut a futuristic-looking device and sent him her number.

  “Cool. By the way, do you have a big record collection?”

  Faith seemed amused by his question. “Not really. As you can see, I have a pretty extensive collection of soul and R&B posters. But actual vinyl? What you see over there,” she pointed to her vintage turntable, “is what I have, and those are gifts from Michael Archer.”

  D took a quick look at the vinyl. Two Diana Ross & the Supremes albums from the ’60s, the Ike & Tina Turner album that contained the Phil Spector produced “River Deep–Mountain High,” and a pristine copy of Labelle’s Nightbirds album. “All my music is digital these days. Does Michael have you searching out some obscure, super-rare soul single?”

  “Yeah, he said he thought you had it.”

  Faith laughed. “Silly man. He knows better than that. I guess he just wanted us to meet.”

  “He has feelings for you?”

  The woman just shook her head like this was a tired old story. “Did you see his castle?”

  “Yes, I had the pleasure.”

  “Well that’s not me,” she said firmly. “I love the past but adore the present. Michael knows my affection for Night, D. So here you are.” She reached out and shook his hand. “I will be grateful if you make this happen. Incidentally, I’m hosting a benefit for a new Brooklyn charity my boyfriend and I are involved with. Please come as my guest. I will send you the details.”

  * * *

  D was back out on Flushing Avenue when his BlackBerry buzzed and an e-mail from Nightbirds arrived with an attachment. It was a benefit for Grow Brooklyn, a charity that he’d never heard of. One of the sponsors was AKBK Realty. Obviously a party not to be missed.

  LOVE HANGOVER

  Back in Brownsville again. In his old hood more in this past month than in decades. He sat again in the McDonald’s, a place he detested, to meet with a man lost in his memories. D understood the feeling. Though it was only a short walk away, D wouldn’t set foot on the corner of Livonia and Mother Gaston. His reluctance made him feel like a punk, but that fear in his gut couldn’t be pushed away. It felt DNA deep.

  He sat sucking on the ice at the bottom of his Coke cup, cursing his timidity, when a shadow crossed the table and Ride sat down.

  “Looks like you found my girl,” he said.

  “That’s her, huh?”

  “And that was me in the photo,” he confirmed.

  “So,” D asked gingerly, “have you hit her on Facebook?”

  “I did. A couple of other folks I know on Facebook did too.”

  “And?”

  “And she didn’t respond. Then she shut down her Facebook page.”

  “I take it Eva doesn’t want to be in contact with you.”

  Ride stared out the window. “Damn bitch,” he said under his breath.

  “Is she afraid of you?”

  Ride peered at D and the bodyguard tensed his body, thinking the bigger man might swing at him. “She shouldn’t be,” Ride growled.

  “But it seems like she does.”

  “I left some money with her. Looks like she used it to move to Los Angeles. That was her plan for us. Guess she couldn’t wait for me.”

  “What now, Ride?”

  “Gotta get out West. Not right away though . . .” His voice trailed off. “I like that kid Ray Ray. He’s smart. Has some heart.”

  D shook his head. “Maybe too much.”

  “You can never have too much heart,” Ride countered. “People gonna chip away at it every day. You need as much as you can get. Speaking of which, I hear you have a problem with some people.”

  “What have you heard?”

  “That there was a shooting scenario and you were a witness, and that some people are nervous you’ll implicate someone’s meal ticket. That sound close?”

  “Real close.”

  “I imagine this must be on your mind a lot. Must worry you having that kind of pressure.”

  “You know the hood cats who stepped to me?”

  “These youngsters don’t know how to keep their traps shut. Cops don’t need to go undercover anymore. They just go on YouTube and decide what felony they wanna prosecute a nigga for. Truth be told, I know some heads. I can speak to a few for you.”

  “That’s not necessary.”

  “No. I see you, D. I see what you’re about. I didn’t give you a lot to work with but you came through for me. Now that I’m out, I’m seeing how things work. It’s a different world. Brooklyn’s different.”

  “No question about that,” D agreed.

  “So D, I need a job.”

  “I don’t follow you.”

  “I need a job. Something to tell my PO. Something to tell my mother. She’s worried that I’m gonna re-up for incarceration. Me and my cousin both.”

  “Do I know him?”

  “He was the guy you saw watching me the other day.”

  “You were real mysterious about who he was.”

  “I know. It feels like a pussy move to have him shadowing me, but Mom Dukes has him reporting back to her.”

  “He’s a human ankle bracelet.”

  They both laughed, relaxing into an unexpected camaraderie.

  “Shit yeah,” Ride said. “But after all that time in jail, I’m used to being watched. So let me know what you can do. I’ll get back to you about that shooting scenario.”

  “Ride, if my security company was doing better, I’d give you a shot in a heartbeat. If anything comes my way, I got you.”

  Ride stood and embraced D. As the ex-con walked away, D realized he had a new friend.

  BE HERE

  Wythe Avenue, between North 11th and 12th streets, had become a central intersection for Brooklyn’s burgeoning nightlife. On the corner of 11th was the Wythe Hotel, which sported a brilliant red neon sign that could be seen for miles and a rooftop bar that offered a grand view of Manhattan’s skyline. Across the street in the middle of the block was Brooklyn Bowl, a bowling alley/restaurant/concert venue that had become a steady home for jam bands, alternative hip hop acts, and the Roots’s Ahmir “Questlove” Thompson who DJ’ed a Thursday-night party. On the corner of North 12th, on the same side as the Wythe Hotel, was Output, where hip hop legend Q-Tip mixed funk and hip hop classics Wednesdays in the main room.

  But on this Tuesday night the hotel and the two clubs were all supporting the Grow Brooklyn fundraiser that was the brainchild of D’s new pal Faith Newman. A $200 ticket gave you access to all three venues where Questlove, Q-Tip, and a slew of other top DJs were spinning. At both ends of Wythe there were checkpoints where revelers were given orange wristbands. Though the crowd was largely white, there was a healthy number of blacks, Latinos, and Asians in the mix as well.

  Remarkable, at least to D, was that he wasn’t doing security. Instead he sat in Output’s VIP section, nodding his head to Q-Tip rocking the packed house with a lively ’80s hip hop set. Faith had insisted he “chill” with her, though the tech lady and her boyfriend were far from cool.

  “Ownership is everything to me,” Faith said, standing uneasily on high heels with a half-filled glass of vodka in her hand. “I mean ownership of the precious. Scarcity is truly regal. It’s almost spiritual.”

  D gazed at this superrich woman and then down at the blocky beige, expensive shoes she wobbled in, and wondered if she was destined to keel over and into his lap. Her boyfriend, a goateed, petite, and handsome young white guy named Cassidy Ronson, sat curled up in a fetal position on the banquette, his eyes focused on the backlit bottle of vodka on the table before him. Ronson hadn’t spoken in fifteen minutes. D had long been amused at the party habits of the webistocracy, a group who desperately wanted to out-ball Diddy, but didn’t have the constitution.

  Ronson had something more potent than vodka in his system, which he seemed to be enjoying, but Faith was determined to make him sociable. She bent down and shook her boyfriend who sat upright and worked to focus his eyes.

  “Cassidy, D here grew up in Bro
wnsville.”

  “Oh,” he responded. “I have an office there.”

  “Really? What are you doing in Brownsville?”

  “I have controlling interest in a company called AKBK Realty.”

  D stared at this high-ass hipster and his eyes almost popped out of his head. Hard for him to believe this little man was somehow involved in Rivera’s mess, but here he was. “You guys are on Livonia Avenue, right?” he said as innocently as possible. “I grew up in the Tilden projects just a few blocks away.”

  The mention of public housing sent a jolt through Ronson’s body. “That part of Brooklyn has been so poorly served by government planners,” he said excitedly.

  “That would be what you’d call an understatement,” D replied.

  “You might not know this, but one of the culprits was a French design theorist named Le Corbusier.”

  “He worked out of Washington?”

  “No, no,” Ronson spoke rapidly. “But he impacted the thinking of planners in DC and around the world in the ’50s and ’60s. Robert Moses fell in love with his work. Le Corbusier argued that the way to create democratic working-class housing was to construct high-rise structures that were very uniform in nature. So it was a top-down idea that spread around the world, from the suburbs of France to India to the Tilden projects where you grew up. The city planners of the period, influenced by Le Corbusier, never involved the future residents in the design process. They just built these tall sterile buildings and then poured people into preplanned structures and told them to behave. Le Corbusier believed form trumped any traditions or cultural differences.”

  “That didn’t quite work out,” D said, struggling to seem engaged.

  “No, it did not. But Moses and the other city planners didn’t end their folly with the Tilden or Van Dyck housing developments. Right down the street from my office they built the Marcus Garvey development.”

  “Know it well.”

  “Marcus Garvey was designed as the anti–Le Corbusier. An architect named Oscar Newman wrote a book called Creating Defensible Space which argued for low-rise, individual entrances with little stoops. Only 625 apartments. Instead of large public spaces in front where anyone could walk through, he envisioned connected minibackyards that kept outsiders out and created—”