I was greeted by a white woman, midtwenties, wearing a strapless polka-dot dress (skinned right off the dalmatian, okay?) and no makeup, not even lip gloss (not that it would’ve helped). The straight blond hair was teased a bit too much.
“Good evening,” she chirped, standing behind a black podium, the kind you’d see in a lecture hall at a university.
“Good evening. I’m here for Montee Simms’s set.”
“Your name, please?”
“Mitchell Crawford.”
She went down the roster. “Ah, yes.” She checked off my name and retrieved a menu. “Please come with me.”
I followed her through a heavy bloodred curtain. A bank must have occupied this spot before Oasis: the teller station was now the bar and the four customer self-service posts were SRO tables, which formed a square around a dozen other tables. The gray walls were painted with palm trees and covered with framed posters of legends like John Lee Hooker, Robert Johnson, Lavern Baker, Etta James, Ruth Brown, Dinah Washington, and Ray Charles. Smoky (cigars and pipes were being puffed, and incense burned), packed (just about every seat and bar stool was filled), and buzzing with chatter and laughter (much of it coming from the bar, where a posse of brothers were huddled together), it was a very intimate, festive setting.
The hostess led me to a table—front row, center—just footsteps from the stage (which was a cement-block-high platform). A single yellow rose sat in a thin black vase. Propped up against a burning white candle was a brown envelope with my name on it.
“Do enjoy the show,” she advised, removing the “Reserved” placard.
“Thank you.”
No sooner had she left than a fifty-something waitress popped up popping gum. While the patrons and the few personnel were in semiformal attire, she wore a gold lamé blouse with green stretch pants and black knee-high leather boots, hoops as big as her pudgy face, several dozen silver bracelets on her left arm (none on her right), and a foot-high, beehive hairdo. Yeah, a real tart. She looked like she’d be more at home serving drinks at a 1950s drive-up malt shop, à la Grease. But with Jane Doe manning the door, I suppose they had to have someone a little more colorful up in here to brighten the spot.
And that she did. “Hay, sugah,” she sang, chomping that gum like a cow. “I’m Janine. Can I get ya somethin’?”
“Uh … a Long Island iced tea, please.”
“I’ll be right back.”
After she swished away (she was a tiny woman with a not-so-tiny rump), I opened the envelope.
Mitchell,
I hope you enjoy tonight’s performance. I chose each song with you in mind.
Montee
Hmm … I was used to singin’ for or to the men in my life. It would certainly be a different experience being on the receiving end.
Janine returned with my drink, cackling with two of the brothers from the bar who each climbed on the stage (one behind the drums, the other getting his bass in position). The glass was formed and ridged like a pineapple. “Here ya go.”
“How much is that?”
“All your drinks are on the house, honey.”
“They are?”
“Mmm-hmm. As the very special guest of Mr. Simms.”
“Ah.” That was nice of him.
“If I can getcha anything else, you just let me know.”
“I will. Thank you.”
“Enjoy the show.”
“I’m sure I will.”
The lights dimmed. A figure came from behind a black curtain and slid onto the piano stool. He began to play. The intro sounded familiar. Then came the first verse. Hmm … Montee is a bold one to do this particular Aretha tune.
“And I really gotta tell them … exactly how I feel … and make you understand … that love ain’t playin’ this time …”
He turned to the audience—or, rather, me—with the song’s title: “This is for real …”
Yes, he was.
His voice favored Sam Cooke—the same timbre, the same throttle, the same flourishes, the same clarity, the same molasses-soaked soulfulness, the same spiritual intensity, the same gospel-deep power.
Heavy but hearty. Strong yet sweet. Tough yet tender.
The other two gentlemen joined in. And when he got to the part—“… and make you understand … that Miss Re ain’t playin’ this time …”—he replaced Miss Re with Montee. It was a perfect substitution. He almost stole the song from Aretha (once she sings a song, it’s damn near impossible to stake a claim on it).
One thing’s for sure: Her version never made me moist.
“Good evening, ladies and gentleman,” he said after the applause ceased. “I want to welcome you all to Oasis. I am Montee Simms—”
“We know, baybay!” screamed a sister seated two tables to my left, waving her hands as if she were a traffic cop.
Montee blushed. “Thank you for that. That’s Stan ‘The Man’ Grady on drums …”
Short, stocky, and dressed in all white (including a bandanna tied around his forehead), Stan raised his hands, crossed his drumsticks, and tapped a beat on them.
“And that’s Cool Cal Cooper on bass.”
Tall and thin, Cal tipped his teal-colored wide brim hat (which matched the silk shirt and slacks he wore) and bowed.
“And we are the Simms Trio. We hope you’ll enjoy the words and music we’ll be throwin’ at ya this evening. We invite you to groove with us, to groove with the one you’re with—or the one you’re next to.”
Some took that invitation to heart: in addition to those same-gender couples holding hands and exchanging loving glances, one female couple did their own slow screw against the wall, another swayed in each other’s arms by the bar, one male couple was parked up against one of the SRO tables (one brother melded his back and backside into the other’s front), and another slow-dragged to just about every tune. Funny, but I hadn’t really noticed that most of the pairings weren’t heterosexual when I first walked in. It certainly was refreshing to see such intimacy displayed by Black Same Gender Loving people in a non-dance-club setting like this.
In addition to encouraging the smooching, the lineup of tunes—Randy Crawford’s “I’m Under the Influence of You,” Donna Summer’s “Fascination,” Phyllis Hyman’s “The Answer Is You,” Will Downing’s “Closer to You,” Dionne Warwick’s “Where My Lips Have Been,” Stacy Lattisaw’s “I’ve Loved You Somewhere Before,” and Lalah Hathaway’s “Smile” (which really gave me a chill, since it was the song I sang for/to Pooquie moments after we first met)—signaled that he did choose tonight’s repertoire with me in mind. In fact, at various points during the evening, he was singing directly to me—something that wasn’t lost on the audience.
The highlight of the night was his “blues medley.” Actually, it was a crying medley—the songs featured were about shedding tears.
“You know when someone really loves you? I mean, really really loves ya?” he asked.
A brother in the back shouted: “Yeah—when they’d mortgage their house for ya!”
Even Montee laughed. “No. It’s when they don’t only want to share the pleasure, but the pain.” And with that he dove into “Cry Together” by the O’Jays.
“I’m sure many of you have lost a love so good you really knew what having a broken heart meant …” was the interlude before Alexander O’Neal’s “Crying Overtime.” And he prefaced the pop/jazz standard “Cry Me a River” (on which he scatted up a storm) with the very pointed words: “Take you back? Take you back? Ha, as Ashford & Simpson advised: ’Get out your handkerchief … you’re gonna cry!’”
Then he did two songs by Ashford & Simpson—“Add It Up” (on which he tackled, not tickled, those ebonies and ivories) and “All for One”—and closed with a rocking version of Bill Withers’s “Grandma’s Hands” that had everyone on their feet. Several folks (including me) begged for an encore, but since he had another set at one A.M., he declined.
He went around to each table, thanking folks for coming
out. Handshakes and shoulder rubs to most of the men, hugs and kisses to most of the women, including that very enthusiastic sister, who also squeezed him on the ass and slobbered him with a kiss (he didn’t seem to mind). She was very attractive (she’s the first woman I’ve ever seen with an hourglass figure), but the weave was a wove (very Art Garfunkel-ish) and the brown leather halter top was cut so low those two torpedoes attached to her chest were about to blast out. He tried to ease from her grip, but she wouldn’t release him. He whispered something in her ear; she gave me a twice-over and nodded. She pecked him on the nose, groped the butt one last time, and let him go.
The sideburns were gone, but the mustache was thicker and so was the ’fro. He had on a dark gray pin-striped suit with a black shirt, and wing-tipped black shoes. He worked up a serious sweat: some ten minutes after the performance, he was still dabbing his forehead, and drops of perspiration continued to slowly make their way down his chest (his shirt was unbuttoned, midchest up). I would’ve loved to have done the dabbin’ for him …
He sat down. He placed his stretched-out elbows on the table and clasped his hands under his chin. “So … what did you think?”
I leaned in. I smiled. “You were jood.”
“Huh?” he inquired, rather puzzled.
“Jood. Better than good.”
He nodded. “Ah. Okay. I gotta remember that one. Any song in particular you enjoy the most?”
“I can’t say I enjoyed any one song more than the rest. But I enjoyed the way you interpreted each one. You have a brilliant voice.”
“Thanks.”
“And that moan of yours …” And what a moan it was … “That’s gonna be the thing that hooks people, that folks listen for. They’ll know it’s you immediately. It’ll rival Ronald Isley’s ‘La-da-da-da-da-da.’”
“I don’t know about that,” he gushed.
“It’s already setting hearts afire. Take your groupie over there. She cried out every time you did it.”
He acknowledged her. “Reena … she’s a special friend.”
Hmm … how “special” a friend is she? I wanted to ask, but it was really none of my business. So … “And I see you love Ashford & Simpson.”
“How could you tell?” He smirked, dabbing the chest. “Yeah. They’re one of the greatest—and underrated—songwriting teams.”
“I agree. It’s interesting that you chose songs they composed for others. Any reason why?”
“You can’t sing any song they recorded together solo. And I don’t think Stan or Cal would be willing to sing soprano.”
I chuckled. “And you put a hurtin’ on that Steinway.”
“Thanks.”
“How long have you been playing the piano?”
“Since I was eleven.”
“You taught yourself, didn’t you?”
“How you know?”
“I just got that feeling. You play it like it’s … a natural thing. Like it came naturally. I always wanted to play.”
“Maybe I can teach you.” He reached out and took my right hand. “You’ve got the fingers for it. Long …” He caressed each one. “… soft …” He peered into my eyes. “… and sexy.”
Janine interruped this intimate moment. “Oh … I hope I’m not disturbing anything.”
Montee released my hand. We both blushed.
She placed drinks in front of us. “Y’all enjoy.”
“Thanks, J, we will,” he replied.
I leaned in. “She seems a little out of place …”
“Janine? Ha, I guess she does. But she’s real cool. Besides, when your nephew is the owner …” He pointed to a white man who resembled Ray Liotta, standing near the bar.
I sighed. “I really couldn’t drink another one of these.”
“Why—you feelin’ a little buzz?”
“Yes, I am. And I don’t need to feel a lot of buzz.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get home okay.” He grinned.
I bet you will—to your home.
He held up his glass; I followed suit.
“To a sweet man. I appreciate you coming out. You made my night.”
I nodded. We clinked. We drank.
“So, tell me, is this a gay nightclub?” I inquired.
“No.”
I surveyed the room—the smooching was still going on. “Ha, you wouldn’t know it.”
“As they say, birds of a feather. Some of these folks are my regular peoples, others heard about me through the grapevine.”
“Does the owner mind?”
“So long as folks are spending money on drinks and his famous hot wings, Joe don’t care what way you swingin’ it.”
As if she knew that was her cue, Janine popped up again—with a batch of those famous hot wings.
“Thanks, J.”
“You more than welcome.” She palmed by back. “Enjoy, hon.”
“I will, thanks.”
He immediately scooped up five and dropped them on a plate while tearing into a sixth. “I am one hongry Black man. I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
“Why?”
“Butterflies. I always get nervy before a concert. My stomach be doin’ the cha-cha.”
I noticed some sauce about to drip onto his jacket and caught it just in time with my napkin.
He was pleased with my deed. “Thank you, sir. You saved me from looking like a slob the rest of the night.”
I nodded a you’re welcome.
“Ain’t you gonna join me?”
“Uh, no. I ate not too long ago.”
“Hmm … it’s all right. I don’t mind if you enjoy watching me eat.” He winked.
What is he, psychic?
“Back to your audience,” I continued. “Is that why you switched up the identifications in some of the songs, but not in others?” On “Cry Together,” Me and my woman became Me and my baby, but he didn’t change boy in “Where My Lips Have Been” or “The Answer Is You.”
“Yup. You not only have to play for your audience, you gotta play to them.”
“After you make it big, I guess you won’t be playing for gay audiences anymore …”
“Hell yeah.”
“You will?”
“Yeah. Why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know of any Black male singers who do.”
He shrugged. “Guess I’ll be the first.”
“Do you think your manager and record company will approve?”
“As long as I’m puttin’ money in their pockets, why should they care where it’s comin’ from?”
Hmm … “So, are you going to be an openly gay singer?”
“No. I’ll be an openly bisexual one.”
That he’s bisexual didn’t surprise me; that he planned to be open about it in the industry did. “You think the world is ready for that?” I was being facetious.
“I don’t know what the world is ready for, and I ain’t much concerned. I do know what I’m ready for. If MeShell Ndegéocello can do it, so can I.”
“Well, she is a woman. It’s easier for some folks to digest her as bisexual.”
“True. But I wouldn’t be trying to reach them. I ain’t trying to change folks’ opinions. I just wanna make good music, and whoever wants to go along for the ride can.”
“Will you record songs that are gender specific?”
“It will depend on the song. And it’ll also depend on how I feel it. Like, some songs you just can’t switch up. Take James Ingram’s ‘You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Man.’ That was a mistake.”
Indeed. And of all the Aretha tunes he could have covered …
“I can even do both versions and release them. Nothing says I can’t. That way I’ve got both bases covered. I can play the big houses, packin’ in the straight sisters, and do the gay circuit and Black Pride events.”
“Mmm … sounds like you’ve got it all planned out.”
“If you don’t have a plan in this business, you ain’t gettin’ very far.”
He chomped; I sipped.
“You’re a brave man,” I observed. “It will take a lot of courage and will to go up against that machine.”
“Hey, I gotta do what’s right in my soul. Besides, even if I don’t get a major label to sign me, I can do my thang on an indie. Or the royalties from my songs can bank my own start-up. However it will happen, I don’t know. But I do know that it will happen.”
I not only believed him, I believed in him. And I was also proud of him: he could easily play the role or he could just pass and, after a few successful albums, test the waters and see how the public would accept him “coming out.” But he refuses to participate in that charade. That’s the mark of a man with integrity.
And, yeah, it was turning me the fuck on.
Just then, a man—a burly, brawny man—crept up behind him, swatting him on his neck. Montee spun around, irritated. But that changed once he got a jood look at who it was.
And I got a jood look at him. Is that who I think it is?
While Montee rose to greet him, the brother literally snatched him out of the chair and into his thick left arm.
“Yo, whazzup, Son?” the man asked.
“Same ol’, same ol’. How ’bout you?”
“Just chillin’. Nigga, where yo’ azz been? You been off tha fuckin’ radar fuh weeks.”
“Man, you the one been off the radar. And you always know where to find me.”
“Ha, that I do.”
“What you doin’ in town?”
“I’m visitin’ my peoples up in money-earnin’ Mount Vernon. It was a last-minute thang. You know I don’t be rollin’ up in da Big Apple wit’out givin’ you a holla.”
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